


A Christmas Thief

by BlueMoon0nTheRise



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - A Christmas Prince (2017) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Journalism, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Betrayal, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, False Identity, Fluff, Happy Ending, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Snowball Fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:15:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 41,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27796795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueMoon0nTheRise/pseuds/BlueMoon0nTheRise
Summary: When Raquel Murillo's editor sends her off to investigate Prince Sergio of Aldovia, she is eager to expose the royal's criminal connections once and for all. But when she poses as triplets Agata, Silene and Daniel's tutor to get inside the palace, she begins to realise that the prince's penchant for crime might not be as ill-intentioned as she thought.A La Casa de Papel advent calendar based on Netflix's A Christmas Prince.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Palermo | Martín Berrote/Professor | Sergio Marquina, Raquel Murillo/Professor | Sergio Marquina
Comments: 167
Kudos: 161





	1. El País

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raquel gets a royal assignment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends, and welcome to A Christmas Thief!
> 
> I am beyond thrilled to share this story with you, and I hope you love the concept as much as I do. It's a Christmas Prince AU - so if you know the film, you'll have some idea of where this is going. However, rest assured that is is not a carbon copy, so I hope you'll still find some surprises along the way. And if you don't know the film, then welcome - this will be brand new to you - enjoy the ride.
> 
> I have already completed all the writing, so there is no chance of this being abandoned half way through (I just edit every day before posting, to make sure everything is matching up).
> 
> Please let me know what you think if you get the chance!

**_10 days until Christmas_ **

Outside, the streets of Madrid glittered with frost, and Christmas lights winked from every storefront. Wreaths adorned front doors, and late-night revellers hurried across the roads, hugging their coats around them, their breath spiralling into mist.

Raquel saw none of it.

In place of fairy lights, the glare of her computer screen seared her tired eyeballs, the artificial light making her head ache and her eyelids flutter sleepily south. It was 10pm, and she had to cut down Alberto’s massive, meandering article on some new up-and-coming Spanish fashion designer into a tiny nib for tomorrow’s culture section.

It wasn’t that she hated her job, she told herself again, scanning the page with tired eyes. She _loved_ her job, and she was so lucky to work here of all places, for _El País_ – so many journalists would kill to be where she was. But _certain_ reporters – even after 20 years – apparently didn’t know how to structure their work in a way that made a sub-editor’s job even a tiny bit easy.

Or at least she had to believe that, because the other option was that reporter-of-every-week Alberto was still deliberately trying to make the subs’ jobs difficult, just because of his inflated sense of superiority.

She wouldn’t put it past him. After the divorce, he’d done everything in his power to make her life difficult – and work offered no respite. The senior reporters, once grateful for her skill, now offered nothing but glares through glass doors and whispers as she got up to make coffee.

She gritted her teeth, blinking furiously to dispel the image of Alberto’s smug, cloying grin, and got to work. No use stewing, she told herself – it wouldn’t get her home to Paula any faster.

To her left, Alicia seemed to be having a similarly frustrating time – tutting and sighing and shifting restlessly in her chair. Her hair, which had started the day in a neat ponytail, was sticking up in all directions.

‘Fucking reporters’, she said, hammering the delete button with vitriol. ‘Can’t write for shit, any of them.’

Raquel laughed automatically, but she wasn’t really listening. She thought she’d finally found the point of Alberto’s article – the anti-monarchy undertones in the collection – and was trying to come up with a snappy introduction.

On her other side, Ángel spoke up.

‘Right’, he said, nodding vigorously at Alicia. He paused, eyes darting to Raquel’s face to see if she was listening. ‘I’d rather sub your work any day, Raquel. I can’t believe Tamayo hasn’t given you a shot.’

Raquel might have seen Alicia pretend to vomit over her keyboard if she hadn’t closed her eyes in exasperation the moment she heard that familiar too-sweet tone emerge from Ángel’s mouth. She loved Ángel, and he was a damn good sub-editor, but his tentative, hopeful compliments made her feel guilty and uncomfortable, and she wished he’d just stick to the banter.

Unable to concentrate on composing the kicker, Raquel took the bait, and opened her eyes.

‘I’m good at _this_ job’, she told him firmly. ‘Besides, I write the odd freelance article every now and then. I’ll make sure you get the next.’

She clapped him on the shoulder, and Alicia sniggered. She’d abandoned the article she’d been hacking away at, and was digging Quality Street out of her bag, her eyes fixed on Raquel and Ángel: one tense and trying to make jokes, one much-too-earnest.

‘But you have such a natural talent…’

He was distracted by the crinkling of Alicia’s chocolate wrapper.

He turned to her with an aggrieved expression, but she just blinked with wide eyes, chewing nonchalantly. The second he turned back to his work, however, she winked at Raquel, and passed a praline triangle to her under the table.

And after that, it wasn’t long before her two companions began to shift more purposefully.

‘I’m off’, Alicia announced, not fifteen minutes after they’d drifted into silence. ‘See you suckers tomorrow. And Raquel?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Please try to fuck up Alberto’s piece a little bit. If I have to see him parade one more award round this office…’

Raquel laughed, for real this time. She hugged her friend goodbye, and was more than a little relieved when Ángel followed her out the door only half an hour later. He lingered, suggested a drink which she declined with tired eyes, and then he was gone, and she was alone. The Alberto story was long gone, but even without it she still had a few more layout issues to sort before she could turn in.

She’d finally got to the back-page headlines when she noticed a new email in her inbox from editor-in-chief, Luis Tamayo. She was so nearly there that she was tempted to just shut down her computer and pretend she’d not seen it, but it could be about tomorrow’s paper, so she didn’t. Still, her mind was already back at the house, lamenting another bedtime missed with Paula.

She scanned the message suspiciously but, as instructed, got up and wandered over to his office.

Inside, he was scrutinising the same InDesign file she had been, appraising the headlines one last time before sending to the printers. Raquel cleared her throat to announce her presence.

‘How can I help?’ she asked, straightening her back in an attempt not to look as tired and deflated as she felt.

He looked up in surprise, and spun slowly on his chair to face her. She felt him appraising her, and she felt vulnerable, alone with her boss – her ex-husband’s close friend – in this dark office building, her mother and daughter miles away across the sleeping city.

‘I’ve got an assignment for you’, he said cautiously, as if the decision had been made against his better judgement. ‘You’re a decent reporter, Murillo, and you know a thing or two about royalty. Am I wrong?’

‘That’s correct’, Raquel said.

She didn’t mention that her extensive knowledge of royalty – both Spanish and foreign – stemmed from a long-time association with various republican protest and lobby groups. Know your enemy, and all that.

‘Are you familiar with the Aldovian royals?’

‘Yes’, she said, feeling a little flutter of excitement despite the late hour and the strange questions. Spain had a long-held interest in Spanish-speaking Aldovia; they were close allies, and Spanish and Aldovian republican groups frequently campaigned together. ‘The king died last year and the interregnum is about to end – on Christmas day, in fact. The heir to the throne is likely to abdicate, I think.’

‘And why’s that?’

‘Well he’s consumed by self-interest’, she said. She laughed self-consciously, and elaborated: ‘It’s an open secret that he bankrolls grand robberies – if you can believe it, with the familial wealth he already has. No one’s ever been able to prove it, so we always focus on his partying and lack of a stable relationship, but he’s far worse than any playboy.’

Tamayo was smiling, drumming a finger against his desk.

‘Exactly’, he said, chuckling. ‘Exactly. Pack up your desk, Murillo – I need you on the first plane to Aldovia tomorrow.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you tomorrow! And come bully me on Twitter for my poor Spanish-language skills in the meantime: @B1ueMoonRise


	2. Paula

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raquel feels conflicted about her decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Generally I don't like to put extra information in the notes, because if it matters, it should go in the text, but this I couldn't get in without horrible clunky exposition. So please note that in this universe, Mariví is totally mentally well.

Raquel drove fast through the deserted city streets, heart thumping. She only had six hours – a precious six hours – until she had to be sitting in the Madrid–Barajas Airport with enough clothes stuffed into a suitcase to last her until Christmas.

The momentary thrill of getting to investigate a topic that had fascinated her for years was quickly evaporating. What had she been thinking?

She was trying to concentrate on the road ahead of her, but all she could see was Paula. Paula, laughing under the Christmas tree, Paula gagging and grimacing when Raquel let her have a sip of eggnog, Paula eating roast potatoes out of the pan.

The memories twisted themselves, and where there was laughter, she could now see tears, and the gaping hole in her own heart as she sat alone in some royal waiting room.

 _Was this a trap set by Alberto to make her look negligent and career-obsessed?_ she wondered wildly. The mother who disappeared into the night and abandoned her child on Christmas Day for a stab at a news story.

She tried to quash her overactive imagination, knowing she was being ridiculous, but treacherous thoughts wouldn’t stop pouring through her head.

God, should she drive back to the office and say no? How was she going to explain this to Paula?

The next twenty minutes crawled by, but finally she was home – pulling up into her own driveway, fumbling with the lock on the front door, bursting haphazardly into the house, which was completely silent and still.

Of course. It was midnight. Of course they’d gone to bed.

Dropping her keys by the door, Raquel proceeded a little more carefully, tiptoeing down the hall and easing open her own bedroom door. She’d pack first, and then she’d wake Paula and Mariví to explain. She didn’t think she’d be able to pack if she’d already seen the look in Paula’s eyes when she told her she’d be gone for Christmas.

The trouble was, as she soon discovered, Paula was already there, sound asleep in Raquel’s bed, stirring a little as her mother flicked on the light.

At the sight of her daughter, she turned it off immediately: but having seen that sweet sleeping face, she couldn’t resist going over to brush the hair from Paula's eyes, to press a kiss to her forehead. She smelt like home – the constant that made every late-night shift worth it – and just brushing her fingers through her hair brought tears to Raquel's eyes.

So she sunk down next to her, gazing longingly through the darkness at her daughter’s face, the clock ticking insistently against the still of the night, minute after minute after minute.

Through the wall, she heard her next-door neighbour's toilet flush, and the distant sound jolted her into the present, away from Paula.

Her eyes were at least now adjusted to the dark, and she began emptying her draws into suitcases – underwear, suits, pyjamas, formal dresses, just in case. She also dumped several new notepads in, her laptop, her chargers, and a few of her favourite books on Aldovian politics. If she was going to do this, she was going all in. She wasn’t leaving her family for a dry headline on the Prince’s abdication. She was coming home only once she’d completely exposed him for what he was.

She heaved the two now-bulging cases into the living room and, with the light on, tidied her packing. She found she was breathing fast, and tried to calm herself as she worked.

‘Mama?’

A little voice drew her from her reverie, and she looked up with a mixture of horror and pleasure to see Paula standing there in her nightgown, watching her pack.

‘Oh, baby.’

‘Where are you going?’ Paula asked, peering at the suitcases.

Even though she’d now known she must do this for over an hour, the question on her daughter’s lips still made Raquel want to ring Tamayo right now, and refuse after all.

‘I have to go somewhere for work’, she told her, scooping her up and depositing them both on the couch. ‘Do you know where Aldovia is?’

Paula looked wary, but she nodded.

‘East’, she said decisively. ‘Near Austria.’

Raquel smiled.

‘That’s right. Do you have any idea why my newspaper might be interested in that?’

‘The king died?’

‘He died a little while ago. I’m actually going because… because his son, the prince, isn’t a very good person, and if we can show everyone that, then maybe he won't become king, and we can help the people in Aldovia.’

Paula nodded this time. Raquel took a deep breath.

‘This job – it’s going to take quite a long time. I’m not going to be here for Christmas this year, Paula.’

A door creaked in the hallway before the girl could answer, and Raquel sighed. She had, perhaps selfishly, wanted to break it to them separately.

‘What’s going on in here?’ Mariví asked, her eyes resting first on mother and daughter talking quietly on the couch and then on the packed suitcases on the carpet. Her expression switched from sleepy to suspicious in a heartbeat. Raquel felt 15 again, caught halfway through the window with stolen spirits clutched in both hands.

‘Work have asked me to do a job for them’, she said, stroking one of Paula’s hands as she looked up at her own mother. ‘And it’s over Christmas.’

Mariví’s face changed again – from suspicion to something resembling delight.

‘Oh that’s wonderful darling’, she said, yawning and wandering over. She sat down next to her daughter and granddaughter on the couch, and squeezed Raquel’s shoulder. ‘Don’t look so frightened. This is what you wanted. You _have_ to go.’

‘You did hear me?’ Raquel asked, feeling bemused. ‘I’ll be gone over Christmas. I won’t be with Paula – or you – on Christmas day.’

‘Isn’t that why they invented video calls?’ Mariví asked, smiling happily. ‘There’ll be other Christmases. Life is for living. Wasn’t being a reporter your dream, once?’

Raquel laughed awkwardly. Beside her, Paula seemed to have caught her grandmother’s enthusiasm, because her little crestfallen face was trying on a small smile.

‘Mama’s going to show everyone why the prince of Aldovia shouldn’t be king’, Paula announced to Mariví. ‘Prince Sergio’, she added, smiling proudly at her own royal knowledge.

Mariví gasped.

‘ _Finally_ a use for all those damn books filling up this house’, Mariví said. ‘Do you need me to drive you to the airport?’

‘I thought you’d be upset.’

‘Nonsense. You think in the future you’re still going to be chained to that desk, doing the same thing you always did? This could give you some real options. This is exactly what you need.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you in Aldovia tomorrow! If you have Twitter, I'm @B1ueMoonRise


	3. Welcome to Aldovia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raquel arrives in Aldovia, and gets to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to day three, folks! This is where things really start to get going, plot-wise. I hope you like it (I always hope that) and do feel free to drop me a comment if you have a spare second or two, they make me happy :)

**_9 days until Christmas_ **

Raquel slept fitfully on the plane, and although the journey was short, she arrived in Aldovia feeling worn-out and haggard. Paula had stayed positive right up to the point that Raquel had waved her goodbye at airport security, and her dreams had been punctuated by her daughter’s tear-streaked face.

She barely looked around her as she dragged herself through the busy early-morning airport. If she had, she’d have noticed the prevalence of journalists like her – suit-clad and tired, clutching coffees and buying local papers before blearily heading for the taxi rank.

That’s where Raquel was now, one from the front of the queue and dead-set on getting to her hotel as soon as possible, dropping her luggage and going for a walk around town before the press conference in the afternoon.

So, when the person ahead of her sped away and another taxi pulled up, Raquel exhaled in relief, hurrying forward to get in. She tugged the door open, and opened her mouth to utter her destination when, to her surprise and acute annoyance, someone else barged past her and through the open door before she could sit down.

Tired and now pissed off, she turned on the queue jumper.

‘Get out’, she snapped, her fingers curling tighter around the door handle.

The man looked startled. He made eye contact with her for a moment, and if she hadn’t been ready to run him over with the taxi herself, she might have noticed the flash of something resembling interest in his eyes as she shouted at him, the amused half-smile. He might have been forty-something, and he seemed to have a beard, but he wore a red jumpsuit with the hood pulled up, and the shadow the hood cast left his features dark and undefined, and made it hard to tell.

All this she processed in a couple of seconds. But then the moment was over, and he slammed the door shut with surprising force, yanking it from her grip, and the taxi sped away. All Raquel could do was yell _motherfucker_ after the receding vehicle, gesturing furiously at the passenger as the car disappeared.

She got into the next taxi unimpeded.

Ahead of her were the most magnificent views, and she focused on sweeping snow-covered hills and fir trees and the castle turrets in the distance, and soon the taxi thief was forgotten. 

She was in her hotel room in less than half an hour, and by that time, she felt a little ridiculous about shouting at the man. Rude and entitled he might have been, but it was only a taxi.

She washed in the hotel sink, dragged a brush through her hair and packed a small backpack... and in another twenty minutes she was out and exploring the capital, which had sprung up about two miles from the palace. It wasn’t really a city – just a little market town – and it looked like it had been created as a PR stunt for Aldovia. Rose-cheeked children ran playing through snow-dusted streets, and houses with pretty red roof tiles were adorned with twinkling lights and holly. Street vendors sold sweets and toys. There wasn’t a bland-looking chain supermarket in sight. Even the bank exuded quaint Christmas-card charm.

Raquel would have liked to have roamed a little further out, to sniff out the real deprivation, but there was a press conference at the palace that afternoon that she didn’t want to miss. It would be her first chance to grill the prince, and a useful yardstick for how much digging she was going to have to do. With such poor phone and GPS signal, she couldn’t risk getting lost. So, for the time being, she stayed in the centre of town.

Still, at least she could talk with local business people about the situation – buying hot chocolate and nougat and tiny glass snowglobes as she went.

All too many seemed very fond of their king-to-be, and Raquel’s sense of uneasiness increased as the morning went on. Only a few would admit wariness, but even those only cited the prince’s lack of romantic attachment.

‘If he of all people can’t find a spouse, makes you wonder what’s wrong with him’, as one ruddy-faced man put it.

None of them seemed to be aware of the prince’s not-so-secret underworld dealings. They’d done a good job of hushing it up here, then, even if they couldn’t do such a good job internationally.

When she mentioned the prince’s alleged criminal acts to a couple selling tiny Christmas trees, they just laughed, and told her that it was foreign conspiracy theories.

She tried to swallow her misgivings, and at midday, took a bus up the palace. There was a museum and a grand hall there too, and she spent the rest of her free time touring the parts of the palace gardens that were open to the public – all the while making mental notes regarding how she might try and enter the non-public parts, should it come to that.

When her watch hit 1pm she arrived at the press hall, notepad in hand, joining the throng of other journalists. She made polite chat with them – regular royal correspondents, most of them – and settled into her seat with a determined, cheerful smile.

Her cheeriness didn’t last long.

It quickly became apparent that the heir to the Aldovian throne didn’t plan on making an appearance any time soon, and his press secretary only endured five minutes of questions before chucking them all back out into the snow.

There was some collective grumbling, but it wasn't long before the other reporters were drifting off into the warm, inviting pubs in little groups, to await the announcement of the rescheduled press conference over glasses of local sherry. A little group of other native Spanish-speaking journalists motioned for her to join them – some even from Spain, who she might have vaguely recognised if she’d tried, some from south and central America. They seemed friendly, and might have been useful contacts, but Raquel wasn’t there to network. She was there to expose a corrupt governing class who thought they were above scrutiny.

Slowly, she shook her head, and watched as the group walked away, selecting a cosy little bar with a real Christmas tree tucked against the window.

Raquel turned back towards the palace.

She’d noticed an insignificant little door set into the side when she’d taken the garden tour earlier, and it had caught her interest. It was plain, brushed wood of some description, and it certainly didn’t look like the entrance that royalty would use. It was also only a hundred metres or so from the door all the journalists were spilling out of now, and in a fit of optimism or insanity, she rushed over, and gave it a little push. When it opened, she slipped inside.

She almost laughed when she saw the room on the other side of it. It was mostly bare, just an entrance-way – but still the walls were lined with suits of armour, and chandeliers glittered from the high ceiling.

She tightened her grip on her phone in her coat pocket. _What now_?

Before she could make a decision, a loud, low voice boomed out from behind her.

She jumped and whirled around, trying not to look as guilty as she felt.

‘Can I help you?’ asked the man who’d just appeared. He was an imposing figure – older than Raquel and well-built – his white hair and beard trimmed short. He had the kind of face that always looked a little stern.

‘I’m new’, Raquel blurted.

‘New?’ the man said, looking puzzled. Raquel held her breath, and suddenly the man’s features cleared. ‘Oh – you must be the new tutor for the triplets. I thought you weren’t supposed to be here until January. Rosa Marín, was it?’

‘That’s me’, Raquel confirmed, not believing her luck. Access to the prince’s younger siblings? This was priceless.

‘Follow me.’

The man proceeded to show her through a labyrinthine series of grand rooms and corridors, each more ridiculous than the last. Candles flickered in magnificent brackets, and holly, mistletoe and ivy wound their way tastefully around every room, as if they simply grew there. Some of the larger rooms had Christmas trees – the baubles that hung from them in perfect coordination with the room around them, and tiny white lights winking through the branches.

Eventually, once Raquel had given up trying to memorise the route, they came to a halt.

The room ahead was comparatively simple: only a few portraits and vases, and a few almost comfortable-looking sofas. And on one of them sat a man, alone, engrossed in a book.

The other man – the one who had led Raquel through the palace – cleared his throat. When the reading man looked up from his book, the former gave a little bow.

‘Your Majesty’, he said.

Recognition struck, and Raquel mirrored her guide’s actions, murmuring the honorific as she did so.

Prince Sergio Marquina.

Not only the king-to-be of Aldovia, but, she realised with a thrill of horror, the man who’d she called a _motherfucker_ not a few hours before. God, she hoped his taxi had had thick glass.

‘May I present Rosa Marín, the new tutor for the triplets’, her guide said, as the prince rose from his seat.

He met Raquel’s gaze again, just as he had in the taxi. She had to admit, in spite of herself, that while she despised everything he represented, he really was quite something in person. Particularly, she thought, now that he’d dispensed with the awful jumpsuit, and put on his glasses.

He didn’t address her at first.

‘Thank you Prieto’, he said, smiling warmly. ‘The triplets _definitely_ need something to keep them occupied. But –’ and it was at this point that he spoke to Raquel for the first time – ‘I thought that you weren’t supposed to arrive here for at least another month.’

If Raquel had been less practical, she might have thought she spotted a teasing glint in the prince’s eye as he smiled down at her. But she was practical, and she fought against her instinct to like him, and gazed back vacantly, her hands folded behind her back.

‘The agency told me today, your Majesty’, she said sweetly. ‘I’d be glad to leave if it’s not convenient, but I’d advise that that their royal highnesses would benefit from studying this month, even if they have other more festive duties to fulfil.’

‘I’m _so_ sorry your Majesty’, Prieto said, his glare boring into Raquel’s skull as she defied the prince. She felt a hand close around her upper arm, ready to drag her away.

‘No no’, the prince said, holding up a hand. ‘She might as well start now, now that she’s made the trip. The triplets don’t need any more free time. They get in quite enough trouble even with a tutor.’

He sounded a mixture of tired, sarcastic and fond, and again, Raquel had to fight the urge to like him. She’d expected an entitled, aloof snob, how he appeared in interviews. He'd never given her the impression of being remotely human; nor someone who would take much interest in his unruly siblings.

Prieto showed her to her rooms, and as they embarked on another epic journey through gilt picture frames and chandeliers, she reminded herself that him seemingly being a nice person wasn’t enough. You could be a nice person to the outside world and still be an abuser, as she knew all too well. And even if he was, truly, a good and kind person to those around him – which she had no way of knowing, not yet – he still represented an archaic, defunct system, and he refused to use his immense privilege and wealth for good, instead playing cops and robbers from the safety of his palace.

She felt her feelings cool, and by the time Prieto snapped the door to her new rooms shut, she was herself again, ready to expose this family from the inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Twitter @B1ueMoonRise


	4. First Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raquel settles in, and meets the triplets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why hello again! I hope you're having a nice December so far. Also, thank you so much to people who've been following along and giving kudos/comments - I see you! ❤️
> 
> If you don't feel able to do those things though, that's fine - but maybe share this story with a friend if you like it? Spread the Christmas love and all. 
> 
> You're going to meet some new characters this chapter, who you will notice are significantly younger than they are in the source material...

The room was nicer than she might have expected for a member of staff – spacious, with a double bed, a large chest of drawers, a wardrobe and a dressing table with a mirror. The floor was bare – albeit highly polished – wood, and the majority of it was covered by a huge rug sewn in red and gold. And there was even a little bathroom with a shower, sink and toilet. The ceiling was high, and the lights, although now electric, had clearly once been an ornate candelabra.

It was certainly nicer than her hotel room.

She realised then, opening and closing the empty drawers, that she would have to return to the hotel to get the rest of her stuff – and soon, before anyone else tried to fetch it for her.

But before that, she had an even more pressing task.

She needed Tamayo’s backing.

What she was doing right now – impersonating Rosa Marín – was very illegal and arguably unethical to boot, and if she wanted the protection of El País’s lawyers when she was inevitably discovered, she needed official approval as soon as she could get it.

Luckily, she’d packed her laptop when she left the hotel. Locking her door as a precaution, she opened the computer, scrambled for her Flock account, and gave Tamayo a call. He answered within three rings.

‘Murillo’, he said curtly, smiling tightly at her through his fuzzy camera. ‘What have you got for me?’

‘I’m inside the palace’, she said, keeping her voice low and steady, in case of passing eavesdroppers. ‘I managed to pose as the triplets’ tutor.’

Tamayo’s eyebrows rocketed upwards; he almost looked impressed.

‘Good work’, he said.

He muted himself then, and she watched him yelling something at someone outside the camera’s line of vision.

‘Do you think it’s justified?’ she pressed, when he turned back. ‘In the public interest? Do we have enough reason? If or when they discover me, we’re all going to be in trouble.’

‘Of course it’s justified’, Tamayo said, almost snapping at her. ‘Stop dithering. You have my support. That prince isn’t stupid enough to give away anything in the press conference, and I didn’t send you to Aldovia to bring back a paragraph on the abdication.’

He hung up, and Raquel found herself feeling both bolstered and a little taken aback. She’d expected it to be harder than that.

Now all she had to do was be a convincing enough tutor not to get kicked out before she got anything good. To add to the challenge, the triplets were teenagers, so she couldn’t turn up with nothing prepared. She could wing Spanish language and literature, but she was much less confident with everything else.

Sighing, she snapped the laptop shut. She would collect her belongings, and she would spend the rest of the evening studying for her first lesson with the Marquina triplets tomorrow. It couldn’t be so hard.

* * *

**_8 days until Christmas_ **

At 7am, a sharp rap on Raquel’s bedroom door heralded the arrival of Prieto.

She’d been up for an hour already, stressing over last-minute tutor prep. Still, she hadn’t dressed, and when she answered the door in her pyjamas, he clenched his jaw so tightly she thought the man might break a tooth.

She couldn't feel bad: he already seemed so uptight, so concerned with tradition and protocol – almost an anachronism in the twenty-first century – that she felt a little thrill of pleasure at his irritation. _Good_.

After a curt exchange wherein Prieto pointedly avoided looking at her bear pyjamas (a gift from Paula), and where she learned that she needed to be ready to meet the triplets in an hour, Raquel slammed the door shut, and rushed to the now-populated wardrobe.

She dressed, at first, as she would for her office job, but looking at herself in the mirror in her suit trousers and blazer, she thought she looked a bit too formal. Sighing, she switched the blazer for a cardigan and the suit trousers for jeans. It was a bit homely, but probably more what they were expecting. 

She, on the other hand, didn’t know what to expect with the triplets at all. They were reported to be ‘difficult’, but reporting restrictions prevented the media from printing much about them while they were under 16, and as a result Raquel had no way of knowing whether ‘difficult’ meant _slightly uncooperative_ or _arsonists_.

* * *

An hour into their first lesson, Raquel knew what the vague insinuations meant. She’d assumed they’d be slightly snotty rich kids who looked down on the staff and were a bit demanding, but the Marquina triplets were just normal obnoxious teenagers, who happened to live in a palace. 

Silene (or Tokyo, as she insisted she be called) refused to listen to a word Raquel was saying, and instead spent the entire lesson texting her boyfriend, Anibal, and obnoxiously blowing smoke in everyone’s faces as she chain-smoked a pack of cigarettes. When Raquel asked her if she needed the exercise explained again, she yawned loudly and leaned across the table to show her sister something on TikTok.

Daniel – or Denver – also smoked, despite Raquel’s protestations. However, while Silene exuded practised nonchalance, he seemed on edge and desperate for approval. He did try to undertake the first assignment, but when Raquel checked it and tried to go over it with him to explain where he’d gone wrong, he slammed both fists on the table, making her jump, and snatched the paper from her hands. Said paper had since been set on fire.

And then there was Ágata – or Nairobi, as she too preferred her city name – who might have been the saving grace, Raquel thought, if only she’d chosen to use her natural academic aptitude for good. She was smart, clearly – perhaps too smart – and although her written sample was grammatically immaculate, it was so profane that Raquel choked just reading the first sentence. She also egged on her siblings something chronic – snatching Silene’s phone to compose filthy messages to inappropriate recipients, and flicking cigarette butts at Daniel; cackling when he balled up her work too in retaliation.

She was also the one who was most interested in their new tutor, and it made Raquel nervous. She asked a lot of questions.

‘Where are you from?’ she'd demanded, the moment Raquel entered the room that morning.

‘Madrid’, Raquel had answered, on auto-pilot, and nonplussed by the strange introduction.

‘Interesting…’ Ágata said, rolling an at-that-point-unlit cigarette between her fingers. ‘Sergio said you were from San Sebastian.’

‘Yes’, she said, smiling, and trying to backpedal. ‘I am. But my family live in Madrid now.’

Ágata hadn’t looked convinced by this explanation, and Raquel had quickly changed the subject, pleased that the teenager probably couldn’t tell the difference between the two accents.

And now, her cigarette long-smoked and her perfect essay crumpled on the floor courtesy of her brother, Ágata was gazing blankly out the window. Silene and Daniel looked bored too – Silene was on her phone again, and Daniel drumming his pen against the table in a quick, sharp bursts.

‘So what now, _professor_?’ Silene said, smirking as she tipped herself backwards in her chair, her eyes not leaving the screen of her phone once.

‘Well’, Raquel said, trying very hard not to feel disheartened about her first lesson. ‘How about a break? And then we’ll come back here and do some physics.’

Within seconds, three pens were thrown carelessly down, and Raquel was being pushed out of the room, apparently in the direction of the shooting range.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for today, folks! See you again tomorrow to shoot some guns.


	5. The Shooting Range

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raquel and the triplets find someone unexpected at the shooting range

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday folks! I'm not going to say much about this one, except that it is one of my favourite early story chapters...

When they arrived at the shooting range, they found it was occupied.

To Raquel’s delight, it was Prince Sergio there, ear defenders on, aiming a handgun at a small target about twenty feet in front of him.

It seemed like he was good, too: most of his shots were clustered around the bullseye. And he didn’t notice them come in.

Raquel took the opportunity to watch him unimpeded gladly, and as he sent the next bullet slamming through the air, she wondered why a crown prince would bother to become such a skilled marksman in a country where gun ownership was rare, and heavily regulated.

She also couldn’t fail to notice how he was dressed. On his top half he wore only a tight white vest – so different from the usual suits that she saw him in in the press – and the garment clung to his torso and revealed bulging biceps.

She swallowed. She supposed a man who kept company with black market bosses and hardened criminals would need to stay in shape, but it was so contrary to the image she had of the decadent spoiled aristocrat that it took her aback.

Just as he was oblivious to her gaze, so to was Raquel blind to the teenagers slipping away from her. Instead of following her charges, her eyes treacherously traced from bicep, to shoulder blade and, slowly, down his back.

They both came to their senses, however, when Silene jabbed the barrel of an M-16 into her older brother’s side, tired of being ignored.

Raquel, in fact, nearly screamed.

She hadn’t even seen Silene pick the thing up and, as unfamiliar with guns as she was, she knew that pointing them at people was a very _very_ bad idea.

Sergio, meanwhile, was far more relaxed. He only sighed, and turned slowly to admonish Silene at the same time that Raquel instinctively lunged for the gun.

Silene, surprised, relinquished it, and Raquel found herself awkwardly cradling a very dangerous rifle in her hands as the prince of Aldovia smiled at her, amused.

‘Can I help you, Rosa?’ he asked. Silene cackled.

‘ _No_ ’, Raquel said firmly. ‘We’re just taking a break. Sorry to have disturbed you – I didn’t know you’d be here.’

She tried to ignore the way her heart jolted against her ribs when she caught a glance of him front-on in that damn vest. Flustered, she desperately cast around for something else to think about, and managed to remember that the reason she was glad that he was here was because she might be able to get him to admit something newsworthy. She looked resolutely at the floor and started listing questions in her head.

At that point, her brain slowly started working again, and she remembered she was standing, dumbstruck, still holding a fucking _M-16_. Gingerly, she set the gun down on the floor.

As she did so, her phone dropped from her coat pocket too. She bent to pick it up, joked about her clumsy hands, and as she did so, something clicked. Before she slipped it back inside her coat, she pressed _record._

‘Do you practise here often?’ she asked as she straightened up. She was still feeling flustered, but needed an opening before he made an excuse and left. Ahead of them, the teenagers selected the weapons they wanted to use, and donned ear defenders.

They were also still listening, and when she spoke, Daniel laughed. It was an odd laugh – like an engine struggling to start.

‘What a line’, he said, thrusting a pair of ear defenders into Raquel’s hands and striding over to the range. Silene and Ágata followed him, laughing too, and smirking at the two adults.

‘I do actually’, Sergio told her. He had a mild, cheerful manner about him and, just like the first time they'd met, Raquel found herself liking him in spite of herself.

‘What does a prince need with semi-automatic rifles?’ she asked, eyebrows raised, nodding towards the teens.

They were interrupted by a burst of fire from Silene, and they retreated. Raquel still clutched the ear defenders in her hands, and although her ears were ringing, she wanted to continue talking unimpeded.

She looked over at Silene’s effort to see almost all of her bullets were on target, as Sergio's had been, but they were so numerous that they all but destroyed the target. Ágata crowed with mirth.

‘Doesn’t count with a fucking M-16’, she yelled, brandishing the gun she’d selected, a little revolver. ‘A toddler could’ve hit that.’

‘Denver couldn’t’, Silene countered, and the girls snorted.

Raquel turned back to Sergio, who appeared to be thinking about her question.

‘I don’t carry guns’, he said. ‘I don’t think of myself as a gun owner, either – these are mine, but they never leave the range. I strongly believe that we’re safer without them.’

Raquel laughed. Ágata shot three bullets straight into the bullseye.

‘But?’ Raquel prompted.

‘But… I enjoy learning the skill, and I hope if there’s ever an – occasion – where that skill is required, I would be able to help the right people.’

‘You couldn’t just play Sudoku like the rest of us?’

He blushed at that, and Raquel was surprised and oddly charmed.

‘I – uh – I actually do origami. To relax.’

Raquel smiled. She was about to try and steer the conversation back to the mysterious occasions where the prince of Aldovia envisioned himself needing to fire an M-16, but she was interrupted by Silene.

‘Oi’, the girl said. She was looking at Sergio, who was still quite pink, and smiling at Raquel with an odd expression on his face. ‘Stop flirting with our tutor and show her how to shoot a gun instead.’

‘Oh it’s fine’, Raquel said quickly, taking yet another step away from the ranges.

Daniel chose that moment to attack his target. He’d gone for an M-16 like Silene, but instead of bothering to aim at all, he sprayed bullets wildly across the whole back wall, laughing like a maniac. When he’d emptied the whole clip, he turned and bowed, and the girls slow clapped him as he strutted towards them.

Raquel hoped Daniel might have bought her a reprieve, but Silene was not to be denied. She ignored Raquel’s attempted escape, instead snatching the ear defenders from her hands and shoving them roughly onto her head. She then curled Raquel’s fingers around a small – mercifully unloaded – pistol. Then she grinned, and pushed her towards Sergio, who caught her with an apologetic smile, letting go as soon as she’d got her balance back.

He was definitely flustered by that, Raquel thought, noticing how the two pink spots on his cheeks refused to budge, instead growing brighter at the physical contact. She stepped away from him and apologised, charmed yet again by this strange, awkward - and completely ripped - man, who blushed at the chance to hold a 40-year-old tutor in his arms for mere seconds, when he must have people half her age throwing themselves at his feet.

Again, she thought she might be saved by his awkwardness, but his younger siblings would not be deterred, and as they bombarded them both with encouragement and abuse, he guided Raquel forward as they wished, rather pointedly not touching her, she thought.

He showed her how to load the gun, how to take the safety off and how to hold it and, eventually, pull the trigger.

Raquel watched him with increasing trepidation.

‘Are you ok?’ he asked her quietly. He was looking at her face and seemed concerned. She supposed she was pale. She certainly felt unsteady.

‘I’m fine’, she told him, trying to pull herself together. It was just a gun. He seemed to know what he was doing.

In an attempt to seem braver than she felt, she added: ‘I just can’t envision a situation where this skill will be remotely useful.’

Behind her, Daniel laughed again, and Ágata muttered something that definitely included the phrase _holier-than-thou_.

Sergio chuckled too, and then turned his focus on the gun.

He placed it in her hand, and although he’d just demonstrated in his own, he helped her position her fingers correctly. When she tensed, he made her breathe in and out, slowly, over and over, until she was relaxed again. Then, with a nervous ‘may I?’ as he reached for her, he made sure she was facing in the right direction, her posture correct, her eyes trained on exactly the right spot.

It was getting rather intimate, Raquel thought, and the sniggers behind them seemed to support that view. His body wasn’t touching her, but he was close enough for her to feel his warmth. And as she raised her right arm to aim, he closed the gap, reaching out to hold her hand steady, and to guide her left hand into place to support the right, until his arms completely encircled her.

Raquel very much _wanted_ to be furious. This wasn’t even approaching appropriate. He was her employer – at least as far as he knew – and right now all she could feel was his warm breath on her neck and his low voice whispering instructions in her ear; instructions that she couldn’t have repeated if the gun in her hand was pressed against her head. And he was a prince, no less. The abuse of power should disgust her, she told herself; she should be appalled. One more thing to add to his list of sins.

The trouble was, she was now struggling not to blush, struggling to ignore how much she enjoyed having him curled around her, struggling not to imagine that voice whispering _other_ , far more imaginative, things into her ear.

She swallowed hard. She might not have heard a word of what he was saying about the gun, but she knew she needed to shoot the damn thing before she did something she’d regret.

One shot, and it was over.

He drew back, and Raquel could breathe again.

‘Not bad’, he said.

Raquel was impressed by how steady his voice was, given how furiously he’d been blushing at the slightest touch just moments before.

Still, she didn’t trust herself to look at him right then, so she aimed her next words at the three siblings, all of whom were completely failing to hide their delight at how the two adults in front of them were so pointedly avoiding eye contact.

‘Right, break time’s over’, Raquel told them sternly.

She’d have to figure out Sergio’s affinity for guns another time. Perhaps it was just a seduction technique, she thought, trying to clear her head.

As she walked back to the palace with the triplets, deflecting their suggestive comments with threats of extra homework, she surreptitiously stopped the recording on her phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you think? See you all again tomorrow ❤️


	6. Like-Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The triplets, Ángel and Alicia all come to the same conclusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday friends! You're getting this one a bit earlier than usual, which I hope you appreciate. Let the silliness begin!

By 3:30, Rosa was out of the way marking their work, and the triplets were alone again.

Without anyone needing to say a word, they left the classroom together for a silently agreed destination: Silene’s room, to discuss their new tutor.

And the second the door slammed shut, they erupted.

‘I hate having a tutor’, Daniel moaned, throwing himself face first onto Silene’s bed. Silene promptly thumped him, hard, and tried to shove him onto the floor.

‘I like her’, Ágata said, ignoring her fighting siblings, and sitting down on the bed too.

‘Nerd’, Daniel choked out. Silene had him in a headlock, and was now edging him towards the end of the bed as he kicked her furiously.

Scowling, Ágata joined Silene in her effort to get their brother on the floor, and with the extra force he landed hard, spitting and swearing.

‘Fucking _bitches_.’

The girls just sniggered.

‘Dani’s right though, Nairobi’, Silene said, wrinkling her nose. She reclined and checked her nails, as if she hadn’t just been fighting like a boisterous 10-year-old. ‘She’s boring as fuck. I couldn’t give less of a fuck about prepositions or wave-particle theory, but would she shut up about them? No.’

Daniel laughed, drawing a mocking mimicry from Silene.

Ágata only rolled her eyes.

‘She also gave us a massive break, fuckwits. And –’ Ágata paused, looking back and forth between them, eyes glittering ‘– did you _see_ how Sergio reacted to her? I thought he was going to come in his pants just from touching her arm.’

The other two collapsed. Daniel laughed so hard that tears pooled in the corners of his eyes as he beat the floorboards with mirth. Silene snorted, then dissolved into fits of laughter that she muffled with the duvet.

‘Sometimes I can’t believe we’re actually related to him’, Silene said, her face red with suppressed giggles.

‘Do you think she was into him though?’ Daniel asked seriously, wiping his eyes. ‘She’s _so_ out of his league.’

Ágata let out a cackle at that, and Silene mimed little puckered-up kisses in the direction of her brother.

Then:

‘She was totally swooning’, Silene said.

‘Who cares?’ Ágata added. ‘Not once have I seen Sergio interested in anyone, and I am so fucking excited to see him fuck this up.’

* * *

‘He shoots’, Raquel told them, one eye on the Zoom call and one on the pile of maths homework she was supposed to be marking. ‘And not just little shotguns either – semi-automatic rifles. Maybe he doesn’t just bankroll these robberies.’

‘Hot’, said Alicia decisively. She was eating a sandwich on her sofa, with her cat, Commissioner, sitting hopefully beside her. ‘I think you should go for it.’

Ángel, who’d just taken a gulp of coffee, choked.

‘What?’

Alicia shrugged.

‘What? Cute man, cash, everyone looks hotter firing a gun… oh! Get him to teach you.’

‘He’s _not_ her type.’

Raquel shifted awkwardly in her seat, and Alicia jumped triumphantly, so violently that Commissioner was dislodged from his seat.

‘You _do_ like him!’

Raquel laughed nervously.

‘I don’t _like_ him’, she insisted. ‘He’s a prince and he’s very likely a dangerous criminal. But –’

Alicia leaned forward.

‘ – but he did teach me to fire a gun. This morning. But it was all the kids’ idea.’

‘Did he –’

Alicia mimed pressing someone against her chest. It looked more like a tango than a shooting lesson.

‘ _Yes_ ’, Raquel admitted. She could see Ángel grinding his teeth, and Alicia was practically punching the air by now. ‘But so what? Getting handsy with the staff is just another black mark against him.’

This seemed to cheer Ángel and exasperate Alicia.

‘You’re right’, Ángel said, nodding. ‘It’s completely inappropriate.’

‘Oh you _like_ him’, Alicia said, again, waving her sandwich in the air for emphasis. ‘Don’t bullshit me Raquel, I’ve seen this look before.’

‘I –’

‘No judgement. Get it. Just make sure he’s not a piece of shit first, ok?’

Raquel was just about to deny _liking_ the prince for the second time – honestly, were they in middle school? – when she heard footsteps approaching her door.

‘Someone’s coming’, she whispered, and snapped the computer shut before her friends could reply. Heart thumping, she busied herself with the homework.

She was right to have done so, because the person in the hallway didn’t bother to knock, instead bursting through her bedroom door without a word of warning. It was Ágata.

Raquel looked up at her.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked, setting down her pen, and meeting the teenager’s eyes.

‘Yes’, Ágata said, without a hint of an apology for barging in. She threw herself down on the bed, and Raquel frowned at her, which she also took no heed of. ‘We’re having a cocktail party tonight, and I want you to come.’

‘Why?’ Raquel asked, suspicious. A party would be a great opportunity for fact-finding, but she’d hardly endeared herself to the triplets today, and was suspicious of Ágata’s motivation.

‘Honestly?’ the girl asked. ‘It’s going to be fucking boring, and watching you fuck up protocol will be funny.’

Raquel smiled demurely at her.

‘Well then I’m sorry to be a disappointment, because I’m not going to screw up anything.’

Ágata rolled her eyes. Raquel considered her for a moment.

‘You’re smart, Ágata. Why do you mess around with Silene and Daniel?’

‘Are you saying my brother and sister are stupid, Miss Marin?’

Raquel laughed softly.

‘I’m talking about academia. I think Silene and Daniel would do better if the palace permitted a vocational curriculum. But you – you could pass your exams now, if you applied yourself. So tell me.’

It was Ágata’s turn to consider Raquel, and Raquel waited as she thought about it, deciding whether to place her trust in this 40-something Spanish woman who’d walked into her life only yesterday.

‘It doesn’t matter what I do’, she said eventually. ‘All I’ll ever be is an ornament to be wheeled out on special occasions. We’re not allowed to _get a job_. Even the monarch doesn’t do that much, and I’m never getting near that crown.’

‘Your brother isn’t king yet though’, Raquel said. ‘Everyone in Spain think he’ll abdicate.’

Ágata scoffed.

‘Not likely’, she said. ‘Clearly you’ve not spent enough time with him. He’s so committed to _doing the right thing_ it makes me want to puke. Anyway, there’s Andres after him. Fucking Andres.’

‘What if Andres doesn’t want the throne either?’

This time Ágata laughed properly.

‘You _definitely_ don’t know Andres, do you?’

Raquel actually knew quite a lot about the prince’s little brother, but bit her lip. She was, after all, supposedly just a tutor.

‘Well, I think you should think about it anyway. You might not need the qualification for a job, but you can do a lot in your position. And you don’t have to ditch your brother and sister to pass your exams, you know that?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes. I didn’t.’

They looked at each other for a few more seconds. Ágata sighed, but Raquel found herself pleased that she seemed to be considering it, and not making sarcastic comments, or smoking, or swearing. She shouldn’t care about these triplets – this job was just a front – but she found she did, at least for the short time she would be with them. Compassion cost nothing, and perhaps it had been lacking for this wild, defiant girl, who’d grown up without a mother.

The moment passed.

‘So are you coming to the party or not?’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Good. Try to look hot.’

With that unsettling request, Ágata stormed out of Raquel’s room as swiftly as she had come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading, friends. If I'm bringing joy to your Covid-blighted December, why not drop me a comment, or share my fic with your friends, or say hi on Twitter (@B1ueMoonRise). I may have finished writing this thing already, but I still need motivation to edit it everyday and dig out all those pesky plot holes.
> 
> Until tomorrow 😘


	7. The Cocktail Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raquel bonds with politicians and teenagers alike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, happy Monday! Thank you SO much to everyone who commented on yesterday's chapter ❤️ I know a few people were looking forward to Raquel's outfit, and although it might not quite be what you were hoping for, rest assured this will not be her only party invitation this festive season...

The party was stuffy to say the least.

Raquel stood against a wall, scanning the people milling about, trying to figure out which group would be best to join. It was a sea of monochrome suits and silver hair, punctuated only occasionally by a dress, a blonde head, a sleek black updo.

She had not tried to meet up with the triplets prior to arriving, and as far as she could see, they had not arrived yet, which was all to her advantage. She was beginning to feel fond of them, but an evening spent discussing boyfriends and TV and the pressures of growing up in a palace was an evening wasted, this close to the coronation. She needed access to the prince and she needed access to politicians, and without the triplets occupying her, this party might just give her both those things.

She had defied her charges in another way too – because contrary to Ágata’s instructions, she was not looking ‘hot’ – or certainly not, she thought, in the eyes of 15-year-old girl.

She’d actually brought two dresses with her in anticipation of formal events, but she had chosen the most modest of the two for tonight – black and knee length and unremarkable. She wanted to slip into conversations effortlessly and unnoticed, glean what information she could, and drift away.

The other dress, with its plunging neckline, she suspected would halt the very conversations she wanted to overhear, while the conversers paid her compliments and tried to keep looking her in the eye.

Besides, the black dress had pockets, and her Dictaphone was already slipped inside one, charged up and recording.

Feeling like she might as well just go for it, Raquel stepped into the fray, dodging the proffered meat jellies glistening on silver platters as she went, searching for an in, for something she could jump on.

Two men in suits were huddled together directly ahead of her, and with a jolt of joy, she recognised the older of the two as the prime minister. She idled closer.

‘ – absolute nonsense, Benjamín’, the younger man was telling him. ‘I’m sure Sergio will accept the throne. Just because he doesn’t want to –’

It was at that moment that Raquel caught the younger man's eye, and as he paused to smile and nod, she stepped forward, taking the courtesy for an invitation.

‘Rosa Marín’, she said, shaking hands with both men. The younger looked surprisingly unkempt up close – he was a huge man with a full beard, stuffed into an expensive suit. Benjamín Agirre, meanwhile, the prime minister, was tiny, with big, round glasses.

‘Good evening Miss Marín’, Benjamín said, nodding as the other man had done. She inclined her head towards him too, grasping his hand firmly. ‘What do you do? I can't say I recognise you.’

‘Oh’, Raquel laughed, and made herself look embarrassed. ‘I’m just a tutor. I hope you don’t mind, but I couldn't help overhearing what you were saying, and I’m very worried about what might happen to my job if His Royal Highness doesn’t… become king.’

She laughed again, awkwardly, consciously trying to seem small and unthreatening – like someone who it was safe to talk to, because she wouldn’t recall it properly anyway. It seemed to be working.

‘I wouldn’t worry yourself’, Benjamín said kindly. ‘Even if he abdicates, his brother Andrés will never let the Marquinas go without.’

Raquel let out a sigh of feigned relief.

‘That’s good. So you do think he’ll refuse it? Why would he do that?’ she pressed, shifting the Dictaphone in the pocket of her dress.

Benjamín sighed.

‘His Royal Highness is many wonderful things, but we all know he’s not cut out for this role. Frankly, I think he’s secretly anti-monarchy, although I think he enjoys the privileges too much to really take initiative on that.’

The younger man had just opened his mouth to argue when a hush fell over the room, and further discussion of Sergio was halted for the time being, as the man himself walked in, closely trailed by another man who Raquel recognised as Andrés, the prince’s brother, younger by only a year. Raquel fiddled with her dress, feeling pleased that, if nothing else, she had a solid, damning soundbite from the prime minister already.

Even better, the prince and his brother were making their way towards her group. She smiled awkwardly at the prime minister and then turned to look at the two approaching men.

The prince recognised her, it seemed, because he caught her eye and smiled shyly as he approached.

However, as they came to a halt, and before Sergio could say anything, Andrés who stepped forward.

‘And who might you be?’ he asked, grabbing the hand that wasn’t still in her pocket, and making a show of kissing it. Raquel recoiled a bit at the physical contact, but she thought Rosa would be charmed, so she kept smiling.

‘Rose Marín, Your Highness’, she said, stumbling into a curtsey. ‘I’m the triplets’ tutor.’

Andrés’s manner changed somewhat then, and he turned away from her and towards Sergio.

‘So we’re letting the staff attend parties now, are we?’ he muttered, although not quietly enough.

Sergio looked uncomfortable, seemingly more aware of the volume of his brother’s voice than Andrés himself was.

‘Andrés, Rosa is my guest’, he said, and Raquel actually felt startled at that. She met his gaze, realised her lips were slightly parted, and promptly closed her mouth. For a moment, her inability to speak was not feigned harmlessness, but surprise. He didn't have to defend her, least of all to senior royals, and it set a warm glow alight inside of her.

‘In fact', Sergio continued, ‘Rosa only arrived yesterday, but since she’s been here, I’ve actually seen Silene reading a book.’

Raquel smiled, still taken aback, and declined to add that she was probably hiding her phone behind it, although she supposed bothering to pretend was progress in a sense.

The gathered politicians tittered at the joke, and behind her, Raquel heard a very familiar laugh bubbling above the rest.

She turned, and sure enough, there was Daniel, teeth bared, his two sisters flanking him. They all looked _very_ pleased about something, although she saw Nairobi flick her eyes up and down Raquel’s figure, and roll her eyes.

Feeling that she had run out of excuses to hang out with Sergio and the politicians for now if she wanted to maintain her cover, Raquel walked over to the triplets instead. She was surprised to see that they had made an effort for the party, even if Silene’s dress would have looked more at home in a club than in this room.

‘You came’, Ágata said.

She grabbed Raquel by the elbow as soon as she was in range, and steered her into an adjoining, more casual room, with sofas and, evidently, the lower-ranking members of the ruling class. Their suits looked cheaper and their faces carried less lines, but they still exuded the same disdain.

Although this room was not rich pickings for headline-grabbing chat, Raquel found herself having fun anyway. Ágata dragged the group down onto one of the sofas, and proceeded to hijack every waiter who passed them with their platters of unappetizing meat jelly, persuading them instead to bring her food that was decidedly more edible. Before long, the four of them were munching on an eclectic assortment of crisps, falafel, red wine, chocolate-covered peanuts, salmon and, for some reason, choc-ices.

Raquel found her assignment drifting out of her head. Outside of lessons, the teenagers were quite nice people, she thought. Silene and Daniel were both in relationships, and they showed her pictures of their partners on their phones. Daniel’s girlfriend was the daughter of a senior civil servant – she was clever and pretty, which a shock of blonde curls. When he talked about her he smiled soppily until his sisters started making faces. Silene’s boyfriend, meanwhile, was a local kid who worked part-time in IT to help his mum pay the rent. When Raquel asked her – in spite of herself – why she couldn’t help, she scoffed.

‘He’s not a fucking charity case’, she said haughtily. ‘Besides, it's not I've not offered, is it? He wouldn’t take the cash.’

She shrugged.

‘People like to do stuff for themselves I guess’, she finished, looking defiant.

Raquel nodded. She’d always made her own money, and she couldn’t imagine being totally financially dependent on her partner. She thought about what might have happened with Alberto if that had been the case. She might still be with him. She might be dead, she thought.

They clearly noticed her suddenly dark mood, because Ágata prodded her about it until she opened up. She probably shouldn’t have, but she’d had quite a bit of the wine, and it was _nice_ , for maybe the first time on this trip, not to be trying to think the worst of people. And she had to admit it was soothing to listen to their offers of help, as unhelpful as they’d be in reality. Daniel said he’d smash his face in, and Silene immediately upped the ante – her image of violent retribution involved borrowing much of the palace armoury.

Ágata, meanwhile, looked like she was thinking seriously.

‘I bet Sergio would help you’, she said.

Raquel choked on her wine.

‘No’, she said. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’ Ágata asked, the volume of her voice drawing a few stares.

‘Because… because I don’t need help anymore.’

Like being plunged into cold water, Raquel suddenly regretted her openness, and set her wine down with a decisive _thunk_. This was a can of worms she might not be able to shut. She knew nothing about Rosa Marín, but it was unlikely she had an abusive ex-husband with whom she shared custody of her daughter. With horror, Raquel realised that her undoing might be three kind 15-year-olds and too much wine. Some investigative reporter she was.

As she came apart, Ágata was still appraising her.

‘Yes you do’, she said. ‘You said he sees your kid, right?’

‘Please’, Raquel said. She stood up decisively. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I shouldn’t have told you this, and I couldn’t accept any help from the prince.’

She took a breath. She needed to distance herself again.

‘Besides, the only people the royal family's money should be going to is ordinary Aldovians. Who should have had it in the first place.’

And, with that, she swept out of the room, praying she’d not just lost herself her job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See ya tomorrow! And do let me know your thoughts/theories if you like :)


	8. Piano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alicia crushes on a royal. Raquel takes a walk at dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello advent pals! Welcome to day eight. Thank you SO MUCH to the wonderful, kind people who have been leaving me comments - I really really appreciate it, and if I've not replied to you yet... I'm going to.
> 
> Today's chapter is pretty cute if I say so myself, and I hope you like it.

‘So I met Andrés’, Raquel said, leaning back against her pillows and smiling sleepily at the face on her screen.

Once she’d got back to her room after the party, she’d taken off her make-up and crawled into her pyjamas, and was now dissecting the evening with Alicia. She was already feeling less bad about her exit, and more positive about smoothing things over in the morning.

Alicia had been calm and unfazed by everything Raquel had shared so far, but at this proclamation, she gasped.

‘ _Please_ introduce me to him when you get with Sergio.’

Past retaliating now, Raquel just laughed.

‘I don’t think he’d be into you. He was upset that _the staff_ were invited to the party.’

Alicia scoffed.

‘Trust me, I’ll change his mind’, she said.

The conversation lulled, and Raquel spun a pencil absently between her fingers.

‘It is odd though’, she said. ‘Sergio’s definitely not a natural king, but whether he takes the crown or not, I feel like there’s more to him than I thought.’

‘Like his dick?’

Raquel barely registered her words. She was warm and tired, and Alicia’s earlier encouragement had soothed her worries and made her calm.

‘I assumed his supposed involvement in crime was selfish and exploitative – but that’s not the impression I get of him, or any of the family. Well –’ she laughed ‘– maybe Andrés.’

* * *

_7 days until Christmas_

Raquel woke early the next morning.

Her students would still be sleeping, and breakfast wouldn’t be served for at least an hour, but she was restless.

So she dressed silently in the half-light, let herself out of her room and, pocketing the key, started to wander.

The hallways were mostly empty, and she was grateful for it. She _needed_ that space. She needed to untangle her feelings from her work. Warm tendrils of affection were already worming their way into her heart when she thought about the triplets or even – god forbid – Sergio; and those feelings were worse than irrelevant to her task. They clouded her logic, and as she began to crave their approval she built false images for herself; she made them like her. The radical prince; the mouthy, misunderstood teens without a purpose.

So, as she walked, she reminded herself: she had no real evidence to prove whether Sergio was the selfish royal she’d first assumed him to be, or if something more benevolent was going on, as she was beginning to suspect. And she needed to make sure that, no matter how welcome she felt, she didn’t let it hinder her from finding out the truth. Whispers of anti-monarchism and kindness were not proof of innocence.

Her thoughts whirled and her feet pounded on ancient rugs, but after a while, something else started biting at the edge of her consciousness. The eerie early-morning silence was receding, and she realised she could hear music in the distance. She found herself drawn towards it – a chirpy rendition of ‘The Entertainer’ on the piano that broke through the palace’s lofty grandeur. 

After a minute or two spent following her hearing, Raquel arrived outside the room the music was coming from. Intrigued, she poked her head around the doorframe, and came face-to-face with none other than Prince Sergio.

Well, not face-to-face – the prince was far too engrossed to notice her. His eyes were almost closed, his face soft in a way she’d not seen before, as if his very pores wanted to soak up every last drop of the melody.

Remembering her role – and ignoring the treacherous increase in her heartrate – Raquel fumbled for her phone. She held it up, watching the prince through the little screen as she filmed his private performance.

She was just about to slink away – she’d probably pushed her luck enough for today – when the wall she was leaning on gave way, and she realised too late that it wasn’t a wall at all, but a sliding door. She tumbled sideways, yelped, and dropped her phone on the floor.

He looked up.

She scrambled for the phone first, her fingers fumbling to stop the recording and shove the device safely into her pocket. Then, she realised that even without him knowing she was filming him without permission, this was definitely a gross breach of protocol and, realistically, privacy. She flushed, annoyed at her carelessness, and curtseyed.

‘I’m so sorry your Highness’, she said.

She managed to meet his eyes as she spoke, and she realised he didn’t look angry at all – not even irritated. In fact, he was looking at her with that same surprising softness, and it was all she could do to stop herself from blushing harder.

So, instead of scurrying away with her tail between her legs, Raquel straightened her clothes, and smiled at him.

‘I didn’t know you played piano’, she said, walking speculatively into the room. ‘Sorry for spying. It was nice.’

He smiled back at her then, a proper smile, and she pointedly ignored the interesting things her stomach was doing in response.

‘I do’, he said. ‘My father was a great pianist. Me – not so much.’

‘I’m not going to keep giving out compliments just because you deflect them’, Raquel said, and he laughed. ‘Your father – King Jesús?’

‘Yes’, Sergio said.

He sighed, and with sad eyes he indicated that Raquel should sit on the stool beside him. Her legs carried her forward without consulting her brain, and she sat down, practically tucked into his side. Feeling bold, she reached for the keys without asking, and played a few bars of ‘Chopsticks’, like she did with Paula, the two of them squished up next to each other on her daughter’s keyboard at home. He chuckled.

‘Oh, you’re a natural.’

‘Mmm’, she said, looking up at him and realising a little too late what an intimate position that was: their arms brushing, gazing into each other’s eyes, faces inches apart.

‘You know’, she went on, looking away. ‘My father died too… when I was twelve. It gets easier, but it’s always there.’

‘I’m so sorry’, he said, and when she stole another glance at him, she could see that he was.

‘It was cancer’, she said, nodding. ‘My mother’s wonderful, and she’s a wonderful grandmother too, but I do wish he was still here, sometimes.’

‘You have a child’, Sergio said, softly, and Raquel bowed her head in confirmation.

‘Sadly, she’d really be better off without her father’, she confessed, and the sorrow in his eyes redoubled.

‘If there’s anything I can do…’

She shook her head.

‘No, it’s fine’, she told him. She took a breath. ‘I wanted to comfort _you_.’

He smiled again.

‘Oh, I can assure you that you have.’

They shared another long, lingering glance, and when they turned away, they sat in companionable silence, both lost in their own memories. After a while, Sergio put his fingers back to the keys, and a slow, mournful tune streamed from the instrument, filling the room with melancholy and longing. Raquel had to brush away tears.

‘This is absolutely the last time I’m saying this, but you play beautifully.’

This time, he simply inclined his head in thanks.

Something in Raquel shifted then. Maybe it was the proximity or the music or the intimate details they’d shared, but she felt braver. He didn’t see her as a threat – far from it, she thought – and that in itself was an opportunity. Even if she felt a little guilty for taking it, she wasn’t doing anything wrong.

‘When I spoke to the prime minister yesterday, he said he thought you’d abdicate’, she said, her voice rising and falling with the same gentle lilt she’d used as she spoke about her father.

She stole a glance at him as she spoke. He’d stiffened a little, but the softness in him hadn’t disappeared entirely.

She took a steadying breath.

‘He actually said he thought you were against the monarchy.’

Sergio fixed her with a steady stare. Unless she was hallucinating, the warmth had definitely dissipated now. She could feel him withdrawing from her.

‘Why would the most senior member of the royal family be against the monarchy?’ he asked her.

With that, he got up, picked up his sheet music, and left Raquel alone. She stared after him, unsure whether her frustration was born of his non-answer, or her own moment-killing investigation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until tomorrow! Thoughts/feelings/theories/exclamations all welcome if you wish ❤️


	9. Christmas Decorations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the royal family decorate their tree, an uninvited guest turns up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again friends! Today we meet (I think) our last major character. There are also some nice cameos - I wanted to include as many of the gang as I possibly could, and most of our missing pals are in this chapter.

The triplets had somehow managed to drag her to another party.

This one was more awkward than the affair she’d attended the previous night, as it was a private family gathering, and Raquel really felt she had no business being there at all.

At least, that’s what she’d said when Ágata and Silene cornered her. The three siblings had been oddly unfazed by her outburst the night before, and after accepting her apology that morning without a fuss, they hadn’t mentioned the matter again. Raquel wondered if this party was actually a form of revenge; to see if she could say something even more offensive on the second try.

In reality, even if it was intended as such, Raquel was well aware that it might prove useful. Still, what she really wanted was five minutes alone to work out her plan of action. Christmas Day was looming, and so far all she’d achieved was sourcing an icy quote from the PM. On top of that, she’d told her _real_ life story to a bunch of teenagers who could expose her the moment one of them decided to Google her, and instead of bringing down the crown prince of Aldovia, she’d come to accept that she’d developed an entirely manageable but nonetheless irritating crush on the man. The sooner she found the real dirt, the sooner she could stamp out those embers.

For now, however, she must play the quiet, no-nonsense tutor. Having declined Silene’s offer of a makeover, Raquel had this time forgone a dress in favour of her nicest shirt, and was now, once again, sharing space with the three teens. Not that the relative niceness of her shirt made any difference – she suspected her companions’ socks probably cost more than anything in her suitcase or, indeed, house.

From what she could see from her sofa vantage-point, this gathering was comprised entirely of senior royals and personal friends – she thought she could name everyone in the room, and had to make very conscious mental notes of who she’d actually been introduced to so far. She was the only member of staff there - even Prieto was not lurking in the shadows tonight.

There was Sergio, of course, talking in hushed tones with Andrés by the Christmas tree. Sergio’s cousins Mirko and Radko Dragić occupied another sofa. They were dukes of two Aldovian principalities and suspected to be implicated in whatever crime ring Sergio was running. Raquel would like to talk to them this evening, if she could.

Silene and Daniel had also invited their partners. Silene and her boyfriend Aníbal were curled up in an armchair, alternately whispering to each other and kissing. Daniel, meanwhile, was sat on the sofa with Raquel and Ágata, not that he was paying them much attention, with Mónica draped halfway over his lap. Thankfully, they weren’t being quite as physically affectionate as the other couple. Mónica seemed to be explaining something to him, and he punctuated her words with laughter and joking comments. She had her fingers in his hair.

Finally, there was Agustin Ramos, the teenagers’ godfather. Politically, it was unclear why the late king had made this man his youngest children’s godfather, but it was clear there was affection there. He seemed to keep a particularly close eye on Daniel, watching him sadly, and occasionally cutting into his and Mónica’s conversation if he thought the boy was getting too handsy.

Raquel wondered if Agustin was also in on the conspiracy. He seemed like a good man, she thought, but then, so did Sergio.

Her analysis of the guests was then momentarily interrupted by the very man she was thinking about, who proposed a toast.

‘To family’, Sergio said, holding up a glass. ‘Forged by blood, or friendship.’

They all raised their glasses and repeated the sentiment.

After the obligatory gulp of champagne, the chatter in the room returned, but Andrés and Sergio didn’t go back to their conversation like the rest. Instead, they bent to lift a large wooden box from a hiding place behind the tree, and started to unpack it.

Ágata leaned forward in her seat as Raquel watched them.

‘It’s the Christmas decorations dad made’, she said. ‘He made one every year, always handmade, ever since Sergio was born.’

They watched the two men together for a moment, lifting little wooden ornaments from their resting places, and hooking them onto branches.

‘They’re not very good, at least not the early ones’, Ágata said. ‘But they make a nice change from the same decorations we get in every other room.’

She looked at Raquel.

‘Come on’, she said, getting up and waving her hand commandingly. ‘Let’s go help.’

And so they did, with Ágata quickly accepting a large wooden acorn from Andrés.

‘This one is actually quite nice’, she said, examining the decoration, and showing it to Raquel, who nodded. It was polished so smoothly it nearly sparkled, and the detail was incredible, Raquel thought. 'I think it might have been his last.'

Ágata looked a little sad as she hung it on the tree, and as Raquel squeezed her shoulder, Sergio noticed that they'd come over, and smiled bashfully.

‘It’s just a silly Christmas tradition’, he explained, hands in his pockets.

‘I told her already’, Ágata cut in, stepping back from the tree, and holding out her hand for Andrés to pass her another.

‘Ah’, Sergio said, clearing his throat awkwardly, and shooting another smile in Raquel's direction. He seemed at a loss. Then: ‘Do you have any Christmas traditions, Rosa?’

Raquel smiled, watching Ágata hang a roughly carved elephant with very cat-like ears.

‘My mother runs a little bar’, she said, watching the elephant swing. ‘So you can often find me and my daughter there, handing out port, just before midnight on Christmas Day. It's the only night of the year she has such a late bedtime.’

Sergio looked utterly charmed, and seemed about to reply, when something else caught his attention.

Or, rather, _someone_ else.

This party was turning into a bingo night for recognising notorious players in Aldovian royal drama, because as Raquel peered towards the door to see what had caught Sergio's eye, she saw none other than Martín Berrote striding towards them. She almost gaped. _The_ Martín Berrote, the man who had broken the prince's heart and launched a decade-long career off the back of it. He was more internationally famous than the rest of the family put together, and was the last and only person to be romantically linked to Sergio. The late king's favourite, the man who had dated both Mirko and Andrés in the years that followed without losing favour. That was, when he wasn't too busy jetting around the world in private planes and yachts. 

He was the last person she had expected to see here.

He was about a head shorter than Sergio, and, in-person, Raquel could see what the family saw in him. She already knew he was good looking – sleek dark hair and a lopsided smile - but it was more than that. As he entered, heads turned. He radiated charisma, and the people who were gathered instinctively leaned towards him, even as their faces betrayed the mistrust that experience had taught them.

‘Who invited Martín?’ Sergio hissed at his brother through gritted teeth, but Andrés looked just as perplexed as Sergio did.

So, the guilty party was Mirko, then, Raquel guessed.

Still, Martín didn’t seem remotely interested in Mirko, because he strode over to Sergio without a word to anyone else, a gift extended in front of him. Sergio recoiled, stumbling over his feet and almost straight into Raquel.

‘Oh boy’, Ágata muttered in Raquel’s ear. ‘Here we fucking go.’

Raquel was itching to needle Ágata about her reaction, but she was too close to Sergio to do so. Instead, she simply watched, and held her breath with the rest.

‘Martín’, Sergio said, a regal smile that didn’t reach his eyes pinned in place. ‘I didn’t know you’d be coming.’

‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world, mi amor’, Martín said smoothly, his voice a low purr. ‘A small token’, he added, and Sergio took the little box that he offered.

The prince fumbled with the wrapping for a moment, and then pulled out the gift. It was another decoration for the tree – a glass heart, with an intricate design that Raquel couldn’t make out.

‘Thank you Martín’, Sergio said, holding the ornament aloft.

There was a stiffness in him, and for a moment, no one else moved either. They all stared at the decoration, their eyes transfixed by the Christmas lights refracted in the twisted glass.

Then Martín smiled, and moved to caress the little heart so that it bobbed and spun in Sergio's grip.

‘Of course’, he said. ‘Make sure you hang it gently. It’s fragile.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment if you are so inclined, and I will see you again tomorrow (when I MIGHT consider starting to answer some of the many, many questions these first nine chapters have set up).


	10. Mulled Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raquel and Ágata make mulled wine, and talk about Sergio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're into double digits now, folks! How on earth did we get here? I'm not going to say much to introduce this chapter, except to thank those who've been encouraging me these past few days with wonderful reviews and lots of kudos - thank you! I hope you enjoy this chapter.

_6 days until Christmas_

It was early morning, and Raquel was typing up her thoughts and organising the audio and video files that she’d got so far into carefully labelled folders.

She’d already written a short news piece on the prime minister’s comments, but she was loath to send it over to HQ. It was a good story, but it would immediately out her, and she didn’t know whether Tamayo would prioritise publishing the story they had or the potential for further, juicier details. She’d screenshotted the video of Sergio playing piano to accompany it.

It was nice, but it wasn’t exceptional.

She was just considering phoning Alicia to talk it over, when there was a knock on her door.

She closed the laptop in a hurry, and told the knocker to come in.

It was Ágata. Raquel wasn’t unhappy to see her – she was beginning to really like the girl, and the more they spoke, the better Ágata’s schoolwork got. It seemed like no tutor before had bothered to get to know her, and that made Raquel a little bit sad. She was a great kid. Still, what she wouldn’t have given to get half an hour more undisturbed.

‘What are you up to?’ Ágata asked her, flopping down on the bed.

‘Just planning’, Raquel told her with a smile, and stifling a yawn. ‘Is there something I can help you with, Miss Ágata?’

Ágata, now horizontal on top of the covers, flashed a grin.

‘Yep’, she said. ‘Making mulled wine. Or cider. I don’t mind.’

Raquel laughed. Of all the people she expected to come and talk her out of proper lessons, she didn’t think it would be Ágata, and she told her so.

If anything, Ágata’s smile only grew wider, and Raquel suddenly felt uneasy. The girl hoisted herself upright, and fixed Raquel with a hard stare.

‘Oh we can _absolutely_ do proper lessons’, Ágata said, eyes flashing. ‘That’s if you don’t mind me telling everyone who you really are… Raquel Murillo.’

She rolled the syllables on her tongue, and Raquel stared, utterly dumbstruck.

This was it. She should have sent the story. Would they confiscate her laptop on the way out, or could she at least publish the material she’d already got?

Her thoughts whirled, but Ágata wasn’t done.

‘Now’, the girl went on. ‘I like you. I don’t want to have you kicked out and have some patronising 20-year-old tell me how to do maths, like I don’t know. So let’s make a deal.’

Raquel’s initial shock was fading into low-level panic, but it still rendered her mostly incoherent.

‘How did you know?’ she managed, trying not to look as horrified and defeated as she felt.

‘Babe, please. The night of the cocktail party? I broke into your room and with just a tiny bit of help from Aníbal, it took all of 30 seconds to get into your laptop. Didn’t you wonder why the person who invited you wasn’t there?’

Raquel turned the information over in her mind. So, as she stressed over oversharing, she had been eating crisps with three teenagers who already knew who she really was. Maybe they’d already researched her. Maybe they’d even seen the reports about Alberto, buried at the back of a legal news site. She felt a bit sick.

‘Aníbal was there that night?’ she blurted.

‘No’, Ágata said, looking at her like she was stupid. ‘I called him.’

They appraised one another.

‘Ok’, Raquel said, feeling a sense of calm returning to her as she realised the situation was salvageable. ‘You want to make a deal, then? We can certainly skip lessons up until Christmas.’

‘Honey’, Ágata said, looking at her pityingly. ‘That’s the _minimum_. But it’s not all I want.’

Raquel nodded. She realised she wasn’t in the best position to negotiate here. She wasn’t sure what else she had to offer.

‘You’re a journalist, right?’

Slowly, Raquel nodded again.

‘Then I want you to tell the truth about Sergio. I assume he’s why you’re here.’

Raquel opened her mouth, closed it, and sighed.

‘Ágata, that’s already my job. But just because you don’t like something, doesn’t mean it’s not true.’

The girl rolled her eyes.

‘Yes, I know, I know. He bankrolls robberies, he’s Satan incarnate, yada yada. But did you ever consider _why_ he’d bother to do that?’

Raquel shrugged.

‘Bored aristocrat? A share of the spoils?’ she said. ‘Ágata, you’re clever. Don’t let him build it up into something it isn’t.’

Ágata scoffed.

‘You’ve got balls, Murillo’, she said. ‘But you’re wrong, and if you refuse to see that, then I’m sorry, but –’

She stood up, and strode towards the door.

‘I didn’t say I wasn’t open to other interpretations’, Raquel corrected, and Ágata pivoted towards her. ‘I’m saying that crime disproportionately affects the underprivileged. And people have _died_ in his robberies.’

‘Right’, Ágata countered. She was on her feet now, angry. ‘Like he's not helped _thousands_. Like anyone else is going to hand out cash to the people Sergio helps. The government would rather they just rot in jail.’

Raquel took a breath, trying to keep her voice steady, to not wake up half the palace.

‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed’, she retorted. ‘But your brother is about to become king.’

‘He’ll be a fucking _constitutional_ monarch’, Ágata shouted.

That gave Raquel pause, and she didn’t reply straight away, catching her breath instead.

‘Yes, that’s true’, she said, hands on hips.

‘Yes, it is’, Ágata said. ‘I’m going to the kitchen. If I don’t see you in half an hour, I’ll assume you’ve decided to stick to your version of the story.’

* * *

Raquel crept downstairs to the kitchen, tail between her legs.

It was more than just wanting to keep her cover a little while longer, she thought to herself. As a reporter, she needed to be open to other possibilities. She hadn’t come here to stand up a hypothesis; she’d come to find out the truth. If that was different to what she thought, so be it. It was just a hard lesson to learn when the words reminding you of your job were ripped from the angry lips of a 15-year-old, even one like Ágata.

When she opened the door to the kitchen, Ágata was busy heating some very expensive looking red wine on the stove, and she actually looked surprised when Raquel entered.

‘You’re here’, she said.

‘Yes’, Raquel said. ‘I hope you’ve not called security already.’

When Ágata didn’t react, Raquel tried a different tack.

‘Look’, she said, keeping her voice low and calm. ‘I’m not here to frame anyone for anything. You’ve already admitted that the rumours are true, but if you can bring a different perspective to what he does, then it’s my job to listen to that.’

Raquel smiled weakly. Ágata was looking at her fiercely, but she was listening.

‘So, if you don’t mind, you can help me out by telling me your version while we make the wine.’

Ágata appraised her for a moment longer, seemingly trying to decide whether or not she was serious. Then she nodded.

Relieved, Raquel drew her Dictaphone from her pocket, and making sure Ágata could see her doing it, she pressed record, and set it down on the counter. In return, Ágata handed her an orange and a knife, and they set to work.

Ágata’s tale was fascinating, Raquel thought, and far more interesting than the one she’d hoped to find.

She started with her big brother’s childhood illness, which Raquel already knew about, but which was interesting to hear about through a familial lens, even from someone who’d not been alive at the time. Sergio had spent a lot of his childhood in the hospital, and while he’d never gone without, material wealth couldn’t bring back the lost years of socialisation with his peers. Still, instead of messing around in the playground, Sergio started to read, and once he started, he couldn’t stop. He started on children’s fiction, but quickly progressed to adult crime novels, and from there to everything else: complex politics, economics, philosophy and engineering.

As he read, he watched the king. He witnessed how his father was unable to do anything about the dire situation in Aldovia, as a conservative government imposed an austerity programme that killed thousands in his name. Of course, the royal family set up charities and donated as much as possible from their personal wealth, but most of the monarchy’s financial power was controlled by government, and the government wanted the royals to flourish, to provide an inspiring example of ideal family life.

Sergio, now a healthy teenager, was angry. He started put his anger into practice, and was arrested a few times for helping local youth rob jewellery shops. He made sure his accomplices got away, but it was covered up, and it wasn’t enough.

By his mid-twenties, when Ágata and her siblings were born, he’d been working on bigger plans for some time, and Andres was in on them too. They set up a secure forum on the dark web where they solicited wannabe anarchists and helped them flesh out their ideas. It was initially meant to just be for Aldovia, but it caught the attention of other European groups, including a gang of idealist thieves in Spain. That was Sergio’s first big job. He contributed the money to get the group all the equipment they needed, and he and Andres helped them make their plans watertight. Sergio was 27.

After that, he was in high demand. Because of the expense, he and Andres started taking a small percentage of the money from each job, but they put it aside specifically to fund later jobs.

His criminal leanings became an open secret. He covered his tracks well himself, and anything that he missed was swept up by Aldovian courtiers, but rumours spiralled. Too many people knew, and even using alias _The Professor_ didn’t help matters much.

The press office started trying to divert attention by painting him as a drunken womanizer, but it never picked up much traction. Andres enjoyed getting him drunk while their security called the paparazzi, but by the time cameras arrived, he’d usually managed to lose the model who someone from his team had tried to drape him around.

And in any case, he was a boring drunk – talking of resistance and philosophy at the bar instead of getting into fights or fucking waitresses in the toilets.

It didn’t really matter – neither the authorities nor the press had enough evidence to do anything with, and the few tabloids who had tried to run articles with not-so-anonymous sources had run into the palace’s extremely aggressive libel lawyers.

‘What did your father think?’ Raquel asked, giving the simmering wine a stir.

‘He never talked about it’, Ágata said. ‘But he definitely knew, and if there was one person Sergio would have listened to if they asked him to stop, it was dad.’

Raquel nodded.

‘Well’, she said gently. ‘I’ve got a lot to think about now. Thank you Ágata. Really.’

Ágata smiled, but she looked sad.

‘I hope you use it wisely’, she said.

They tried the wine in companionable silence and, deeming it ready, Ágata texted Silene and Daniel, who appeared at the door almost instantly. Raquel suspected they might have been just out of sight all along.

‘What’s up, _Raquel_ ’, Silene said, rummaging in the cupboard for the largest glass she could find. She turned around, proudly brandishing a two-pint tankard.

Daniel grinned at the use of her real name.

‘So, is she with us?’ Silene prompted, and Ágata nodded. Raquel let out a breath she’d not realised she was holding.

‘Great’, Daniel said, also fishing a two-pint tankard from the cupboard. ‘Let’s get _fucked_.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are happening! I would love to know what you made of this chapter, and I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow.


	11. History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergio confronts his tangled emotional past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again friends :) This chapter we're going to look at things from a different perspective! Normal service will resume tomorrow, but for now, enjoy the change of pace.

Sergio was working.

Or, rather, he was sitting at a desk with the briefings from cabinet open in front of him, a single sheet of paper in his hand. He had no idea what the paper was about, on account of the fact that his thoughts were elsewhere. He’d tried to read the first paragraph five times now, but his mind, unhelpfully, kept flashing back to the shooting range, and to Rosa’s smile as she clumsily played ‘Chopsticks’ and leaned against him.

He shook his head, determinedly pushed his glasses up his nose, and tried the paragraph again. He thought it might be about foreign policy, but he wasn’t sure. He’d never had this trouble before.

He’d finally managed a modicum of concentration – making it all the way to paragraph three and discerning that it was in fact about free school meals and not foreign policy at all – when a soft tapping on the open door broke his focus. His heart leapt. Foolishly, he expected it to be _her_.

It wasn’t, of course.

Instead, the universe had presented him with the man he wanted to see least in the whole world.

‘I hope I’m not disturbing anything’, Martín said, strolling into the room without invitation.

Sergio closed his eyes, hoping that, if he squeezed them tight enough, he might open them and find that the man in front of him was nothing more than a mirage.

He had nothing good to say to Martín, not anymore, and he would have appreciated the space to stew about his upcoming coronation, read cabinet notes and try to shake off this inconveniently timed crush on his younger siblings’ tutor. It was entirely inappropriate, he knew that, and he hoped that she hadn’t felt pressured at any point. He really should have ignored Silene at the gun range and kept his hands off her, because now all he could think about was holding her again.

He must have kept his eyes closed too long, because Martín – sadly _not_ a mirage – was clearing his all-too-real throat. Reluctantly, Sergio placed the document down, walked around the desk, and faced him.

‘How can I help you, Martín?’ he asked, voice laced with weariness.

‘Mirko invited me’, Martín said, slowly, stepping towards the prince until they were less than a foot apart. ‘But I didn’t come here for him. I came because I’m not over you. And I don’t think you’re over me either.’

Sergio sighed. He didn’t need to deal with this today.

‘We both know neither of those statements are true, Martín’, Sergio said. ‘So I’ll ask you again: why are you here?’

Martín laughed. He raised both eyebrows in mock-hurt, head cocked to look into Sergio’s eyes; the perfect contrast to the prince, the cold, annoyed statesman.

He was toying with something on the tip of his tongue, Sergio knew his tells. The subtle shifting of weight, the sharp intake of breath that preceded nothing after all, his teeth biting down on his lower lip as he thought.

Once, it would have endeared him to him, but all Sergio felt now was impatience.

But Martín spoke eventually, and he seemed to choose his words carefully when he did.

‘Regardless of the past, Sergio, we make a good team, and you know it’, he said. He paused. ‘Andrés told me about the St Joseph’s job you have coming up, and frankly I think you could do with another pair of hands.’

Sergio almost threw him out there and then. He would be having _very_ strong words with Andrés later.

‘Martín’, he said, voice low and dangerous. ‘You will never be involved in another of my jobs again. _Never_.’

‘I made a mistake’, Martín shot back, stepping closer.

The passion radiating from him still made Sergio’s heart stop, just for a moment.

‘I made a mistake’, he repeated, his voice cracking at the end. ‘I’m sorry that I don’t have the might of the royal press office behind me to clean up after me, unlike _you_.’

His finger jabbed into Sergio’s chest.

‘So did I’, Sergio hissed. ‘Bringing my _boyfriend_ to work was undoubtedly a mistake, and one I won’t be making ever again.’

‘Oh, Andrés has told me of your draconian _no personal relationships_ , darling.’

Sergio stiffened.

‘It was your fault they got caught’, Sergio told him. His face was contorted with rage, his voice so low that if Martín only breathed, he’d drown him out. ‘They’ll spend the rest of their lives behind bars. Get out.’

He turned his back, and waited to hear Martín’s receding footsteps. He was shaking. He _hated_ Martín for what he’d done.

Most of all, he hated himself, for trading those poor people’s lives for a few hours of bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Intriguing, no? See you all tomorrow...


	12. The St Joseph's Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raquel and the triplets head into town, and go to watch Sergio make a speech

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening pals. This one's a little longer than the last, and was also - uncharacteristically - a nightmare to edit, so I hope you appreciate it :)

_5 days until Christmas_

As per their deal, Raquel’s interactions with the triplets these days were not spent poring over maths problems and hefty books on fascism but, instead, enjoying the run up to Christmas. Sometimes, the triplets would even help plot how best to get Raquel access to Sergio, to help her fact check everything that Ágata had told her.

Not that she needed Sergio for all of that. In the early morning and late evening, alone in her room, she’d been phoning around the police departments who’d dealt with the biggest robberies. The royal archives had also proved worth raiding – she’d checked all the claims about charitable donations during the last few conservative governments, and they seemed to check out. Even better, Aníbal had helped her access the dark web, and they’d tracked down Sergio’s forum with ease. Tentatively, Raquel was building trust with a few ex-accomplices of his, who she hoped would agree to an interview soon.

However, she couldn't focus entirely on her investigation while she still needed to keep up the illusion of an attentive tutor, and today the triplets had insisted that they head into town. Raquel had mentioned her lacklustre first day there, and they were determined to show her the best time they could.

‘Which, to be fair, isn’t saying much’, Silene said.

As they walked, wrapped up against the cold, Raquel also took the opportunity to ask the group what was going on between Sergio and Martín.

The three exchanged amused glances.

‘They used to be a couple’, Daniel said. ‘Then Martín showed everyone how much of a fucking arsehole he really was, and now they’re not.’

Ágata laughed.

‘Basically that’, she said. ‘I guess you know about the Estonian bank job?’

‘Yes’, Raquel said, nodding. ‘Although there are big gaps. All I know for sure is that the robbers were going to get away with it; the police had nothing. But suddenly they _did_ have something – they found out the extraction point and arrested everyone as they escaped. And the next day, Sergio and Martín’s pictures were everywhere, and the day after, their very public break up. Everyone thinks the two things are related. But it worked out well for Martín, at least.’

‘Exactly!’ said Ágata. They came to a halt to shelter under a store front as they talked. ‘Up until that point Martín and Sergio’s relationship had been private, and Martín didn’t like it.’

‘Dad really liked Martín’, Daniel interjected. ‘And he didn’t mind who knew about it. But Sergio wouldn’t tell anyone they were together, and that’s got to suck.’

‘Yeah, or he was afraid the _new_ king wouldn’t do everything he said’, Silene muttered.

‘ _Anyway’_ , Ágata continued, glaring at her siblings. ‘They were in Estonia, and Martín hired a photographer and told him when and where he could get a picture of them together. It would have been fine, but the photographer knew about Sergio’s reputation and he thought he might be involved in robbery that was on the news, so he gave the details to the police. And the police figured out that it must be en route to the extraction point.’

‘Stupid really’, said Silene. ‘He could have just talked to Sergio, but I think he didn’t want to reveal how much of a little publicity whore he was, so he had to pretend they got papped.’

She rolled her eyes, and Daniel muttered _fucking snitch_ under his breath.

Raquel nodded gratefully. It was so nice to finally be able to fill in those strange holes in the story.

‘And now?’

‘Why so interested, Miss Murillo?’ Silene asked, waggling her eyebrows. ‘If you want a piece of our brother, you’ll have to get in line.’

Raquel tried very, very hard not to smile.

‘I’m asking as a _journalist…_ ’

‘Sure, honey’, Ágata said. ‘But whatever, you don’t need to worry. Sergio has never forgiven Martín, who clearly just wants one last shot now that he's about to get the crown. Besides –’ she shared another meaningful glance with her siblings ‘– you should have seen Sergio’s face at the shooting range. Pretty sure he’d have-’

Raquel - not eager to hear the end of that sentence - hastily interjected and tried to reprimand her for the inappropriate turn of the conversation, which delighted the others. They cackled and teased, and Raquel protested weakly.

Still giggling, they headed into a bar, and in an attempt to distract them from the topic of Sergio and her as anything more than the future king and a journalist, bought everyone a small mug of steaming mulled cider, and steered them to a table.

Silene – who deemed cider too tame – was just in the process of flirting with the bar staff to get them to sell her shots, when a vaguely familiar face swam into Raquel’s line of sight. The man seemed to be staring at her, and Raquel realised she had last seen him at the press conference – another reporter. His reappearance in her life now did not fill her with joy, not while sandwiched between two young royals, who were still ribbing her about Sergio and drinking age-inappropriate drinks that she had bought them (she drew the line at 11am shots for Silene, however, hence the negotiation at the bar).

‘Raquel Murillo, right?’ the man said, in US-accented English, settling himself comfortably at their table without invitation. ‘What are you doing hanging out with Prince Daniel and Princess Ágata, hey?’

The two teenagers both gave him withering glares, but neither had the chance to bite back, because he continued on in one breath.

‘How’d you like to be interviewed by a _real_ reporter, hey kids?’ he asked, leaning forwards. He held out his hand.

At that moment, Silene reappeared, triumphantly clutching her shots, one of which she not-so-accidentally spilled over the man’s jacket as she sat. She'd clearly been able to hear from the bar.

‘I no understanding English’, Silene said, laying on her Aldovian accent as thick as possible and blinking stupidly, her deliberately botched grammar making Daniel snort with laughter.

‘Oh’, said the reporter. He looked confused, and glanced sideways at Raquel for help. ‘Right.’

Raquel said nothing, just shrugged and smiled, and sipped on her cider.

Still, the man seemed loath to leave their table with nothing, so he tried a different tack.

‘Just a picture then’, he said, smiling broadly. He glanced at Raquel, unsure if the young royals understood the request. ‘Could you ask–’

‘Fuck _off_ ’, Silene interrupted, downing one of her shots and rolling her eyes. ‘Or I’m calling security.’

The man scarpered at that, and Silene raised her final glass to the others. The liquid was red and green, and looked slightly toxic.

‘Cheers’, she said.

* * *

Two hours later, and inappropriately merry, the foursome headed back outside, to watch Sergio give a speech for the St Joseph’s Orphanage charity the royals were supporting that year. As well as donating themselves, they always held a public benefit in their chosen charity's honour, with the monarch's speech opening the event. Silene had sold the speech as _hilarious_ and Ágata had looked uncharacteristically worried about it all, and Raquel was intrigued.

When they arrived, Prieto was at the microphone. He was talking about the royal family’s long relationship with the charity, in what Raquel considered unnecessary detail. She wasn’t interested in King Jesús’s chance meeting with the proprietor in 1978, much less in a verbatim account of their first conversation. She didn’t think the rest of the crowd was either, judging by how people shifted restlessly from foot to foot, rubbing their cold, gloved hands together for warmth.

Eventually, he did get to the point.

‘And’, he said. ‘Without further ado, I am delighted to introduce His Royal Highness Prince Sergio Marquina, to formally open this year’s benefit!’

The crowd erupted into applause, and Raquel followed Prieto’s outstretched arm with her eyes, pointing into the wings of the stage.

The crowd held its breath. But no one emerged.

 _He wasn’t there_.

‘Fuck’, Ágata muttered. ‘Fucking _idiot_.’

Raquel turned to her.

‘Do you know where he is, Ágata?’ she asked, sharply.

‘Of course I do’, she said. She hesitated for a moment, and then she grabbed Raquel’s arm, and the four of them barged their way back out of the crowd, and away.

* * *

They found Sergio a full mile away, helping a group of masked robbers shove money into bags. Ágata immediately marched up to him and wrenched his mask off him, but all Raquel could do was stare.

‘What the _fuck_ are you doing?’ Silene demanded, as Daniel tried to drag him away. Unfortunately for Daniel, Sergio was bigger and stronger than he was, and stood his ground. ‘You’re supposed to be on stage. _Now._ ’

Sergio seemed more concerned about Raquel’s presence than his younger siblings screaming in his face, because instead of answering Silene, he locked eyes with Raquel, who was paper white, lips slightly parted, a comical caricature of shock. Knowing something in theory and seeing it in reality were two completely different things, she was realising. She'd felt buoyed up by the idea of this modern-day Robin Hood, but all she felt in that moment was horror. She couldn't move, she couldn't even begin to process the scene in front of her.

‘What’s she doing here?’ Sergio asked quietly to no one in particular, not breaking eye contact.

‘She knows everything’, Ágata said, helping Daniel in his efforts to shift their older brother, but her words only caused him to tense more, and he wrenched his arms from their grip.

‘ _What_?’ he asked, turning now, and suddenly looking murderous.

Raquel was slowly regaining the use of her faculties, and she made use of this to take a shaky step forward.

‘What’s all this for?’ she breathed, shaking. ‘I thought you still cared about _legal_ charity too.’

Sergio ran both hands over his face.

‘I’ve already given a significant sum to St Joseph’s this year’, he said, his voice quiet again, as if she might bolt at a loud noise. ‘But it’s not enough, and it’s not the people’s job to plug a gap left by the government.’

‘Ok, can we talk about this _after_ the speech?’ Ágata said, trying another tug on Sergio’s arm. 

‘Ágata, they’ll have made an excuse and opened it without him by now’, Raquel said. She felt numb, like her mouth and body were functioning without her permission. ‘And I still have questions.’

Ágata sighed. Sergio looked at Raquel sharply.

‘I have no obligation to answer your questions’, he told her.

‘Then fire me’, Raquel dared him, feeling brave. She felt the triplets all tense beside her. ‘Fire me, brand me as a liar, ruin my credibility to protect yourself. You won’t be the first.’

He looked chastened, but his posture was still tense and wary; a predator biding its time.

‘Do you _know_ this robbery will help more people than it will harm?’ she demanded, realising far too late that her characterisation of Rosa was somewhat all over the place. She hoped he hadn’t noticed, but there was something about seeing a royal with fistfuls of cash that boiled her blood. 'Did you even think to check?'

‘Rosa’, he said, grabbing her by the hand and leading her over to one of the packed cases of cash. ‘Look at this.’

He held up a note, fifty euros, glistening in the winter sun.

She glared up at him, heart pounding. She didn't snatch her hand away.

‘What is this?', he asked, his voice so earnest that it quashed her acid response. 'It’s paper. It’s just paper, Rosa. My friends at the Mint have been stockpiling extra notes for months - millions, yes - but not for ourselves. Do you know who else does that - every day, all over the world? Do you know who gets the money everywhere else, Rosa?’

Raquel nodded, feeling a lump rise in her throat.

‘The rich’, she whispered.

‘Exactly’, he said. ‘But not today. Today we're distributing these cases amongst trusted associates in Aldovia who will, over the next few days, transfer them into bank accounts and then, from there, to hundreds of charitable causes. That’s all. That's all.’

The lump in her throat swelled, and her eyes stung. She looked up at him to see similar emotion in his eyes. His expression was fierce, and his gaze fixed determinedly on her, willing her to understand. He was still holding her hand, his grip vice-like.

'A liquidity injection', she choked out.

He nodded.

‘That’s why I’m here, and not up on stage, cutting a ribbon. I could tell my people to give as much as they can from the steps of my palace, or I could help drive _real_ change – using my resources to generate as much income for the needy as I possibly can. And this... this is the best method I've come up with.’

He seized her other hand then, and she understood: really, truly understood.

‘Okay’, she whispered, her voice cracking.

Her cheeks were wet by then, and he let out a strangled cry that could have been a sob or laughter. And from there, it felt natural when he rested his forehead against hers and beamed, when she curled her fingers around the back of his neck to hold his head in place, and grinned right back.

They were laughing together, and she noticed that the fierce expression in his eyes hadn’t left, but now she wasn’t so sure whether it was anger or something else.

She didn’t get the chance to find out, because she was brought back to reality by Daniel clearing his throat loudly. Silene sniggered.

‘Great’, Ágata said chirpily, clearly fighting a smirk. ‘So we all understand each other. Do you need help, Sergio?’

They spent the next twenty minutes helping to pack up the last of the money, Raquel trying not to wonder what it would have felt like to close the gap between them and press the prince’s mouth against her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it killing you yet? See you all tomorrow x


	13. Sledges and Snowball Fights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raquel and the triplets have fun in the snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and happy Sunday! I can't believe we're over halfway through this story now - it's flown by, for me at least. A big thank you to those people who are commenting and keeping my spirits up - it goes a long way, believe me.
> 
> As a thank you, I will continue to torture you with this Christmas-themed slow burn.

_4 days until Christmas_

They were beginning to have to get more creative with their avoidance of formal lessons. It seemed that Prieto had noticed their prolonged absence the day before, and now there were noticeably more staff patrolling the corridors, just waiting for someone to try to get past.

It didn’t phase the triplets, of course, and today they were hell-bent on going sledging.

It took them twenty minutes to make it from the school room to the front door. They’d jumped behind doors, into cupboards and, once, behind a vase that wobbled so violently, Raquel thought she might have a heart attack. Breaking expensive china was a sure-fire way to end up confined indoors until Christmas with moody teenagers who had no intention of doing any learning.

But still, they made it, and suddenly they were outside, sprinting around the back of the palace to get the sledges. Daniel went flying in the snow as they ran, but instead of helping him up, Silene and Ágata grabbed an arm each, dragging him through the snow and carving a deep, curving trail behind them.

Raquel, meanwhile, was more interested by the scenery. There was a beautiful expanse of white, perfect snow behind the palace, sweeping down towards the forest, at the perfect incline for sledging, yes, but breathtaking in its own right.

While the teenagers dragged sledges from storage behind her, Raquel ran her gaze across the glittering mountains in the distance, crisp winter air filling her lungs. She felt very grateful for all of this, she thought. 

When four sledges were set out on the ground, and with Daniel now released from his sisters’ grip, it was him who took charge of the activity. He rejected the hillside of unruined snow that Raquel was admiring, instead walking them further from the palace to a steeper slope with a light smattering of trees punctuating the glittering white.

‘You’ve got to have obstacles’, he explained. ‘Otherwise it’s no fun.’

They set up their sledges in a line at the top of Daniel’s preferred slope, the triplets bickering over who did or didn’t have a 2cm head start. And when everyone was finally agreed and settled, Daniel grinned.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

His sisters were braced to go, and Raquel imitated them and leant forwards too, hoping that she wasn’t about to die by colliding with a tree.

They counted down together, and as they all simultaneously screamed _GO!!_ they set off, kicking into the snow to set their sledges in motion.

Thus far, Raquel’s sledging experience was limited to tea trays in the garden. She had been 5, and she and her sister had got covered in mud because the snow on the ground was too thin.

 _This_ was a far cry from those childhood winters, and terrifying as it was, it was also great fun: careering down the hill on that flimsy wooden contraption, swerving wildly around the trees and shrieking as she nearly collided with Ágata, who’d also just tried to avoid a tree on her other side.

Still, it was Raquel who was thrown from her ride first – she turned too sharply and suddenly she was falling. The sledge was tumbling faster than her and her mouth and nose filled with soft, freezing snow. Below her, she could hear the siblings yelling as they neared the bottom, and then Daniel crowing with victory.

Two seconds later, still tumbling, she heard a soft _thud_ and a stream of furious swearing, followed by more thuds. She scrambled to her feet and ran the rest of the way, only to find herself in the midst of a furious snowball fight – Silene and Ágata against Daniel.

Raquel took pity on him, and before long they had fashioned themselves a trench in the ice to defend against the relentless snow artillery raining down on them courtesy of the two girls.

Daniel was a good fighting partner, Raquel thought – his aim was good, and when a snowball hit him squarely in the face he climbed out of the trench to slam Silene into the ground, while Raquel provided back up, pelting her with snowballs while her brother wrestled her, trying to shove snow inside her coat.

They might have claimed a resounding victory right then, had it not been for a new figure on the horizon who Ágata, realising that Silene was well and truly defeated, ran over to to recruit.

Suddenly the air fire redoubled, and Raquel and Daniel had to retreat, frantically trying to craft fresh snowballs in the relative safety of their trench. But Silene was up again by then, and the bombing campaign turned to melee combat as three bodies hurled themselves into the trench, fists full of snow. Ágata and Silene jumped on Daniel, ripping off his coat and jumper and rolling him in the snow until he begged for mercy.

Seeing Daniel’s fate, Raquel tried to run. She now recognised her attacker as Sergio, and she sprinted back up the hill for all she was worth, crowing with delight when she landed a snowball in his face. But the victory was short-lived: he was faster than her, and he deposited one of his fists of snow directly into her face in revenge, rubbing the icy water into her skin. She spluttered and tripped, and with some of his weight still leant on her face, he stumbled too.

They landed heavily in a giggling, wet heap, his weight winding Raquel.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked, noticing her wince.

‘Fine’, she told him, panting hard. In the distance, the now-shirtless Daniel was squealing, on his feet, but still being pursued by his cackling sisters.

Sergio nodded, looking relieved. He shifted his weight a little, and Raquel thought was going to push himself up and help her up too, but she was wrong. Suddenly, his hands were down the back of her neck, forcing freezing snow under her coat. She screamed.

He was laughing, and she wriggled out from under him and onto her feet. She was tempted to pelt him with more snow, but they were still on a slight hill, and a much better form of revenge occurred to her as he scrambled upright, still laughing.

She gave him a hard shove, and he toppled. She screamed again, this time with victorious laughter. But it was premature. As he fell, he grabbed her by the arm, dragging her down with him. They rolled back down the hill together, now wheezing with laughter.

They landed in another heap near where Daniel was still being tormented. Raquel was lying atop Sergio this time, and she was about to get up and tell the girls that enough was enough, when something in Sergio's expression stopped her. His face was flushed from the cold and the exercise, but his dark eyes were calm and serious, looking at her with the same fierce regard that he'd had when he’d told her his _raison d’être_ behind the stealing.

Raquel felt her stomach flip treacherously. His hands were on her waist, and hers moved of their own accord to cup his face. She let her head relax, resting her forehead against his like before, marvelling at how she had ended up here: enjoying his warm breath against her skin, caught in the moment before she would, finally, press her lips against his. 

‘Hey!’ Daniel yelled, much closer than Raquel thought he’d been, causing the pair of them to jump, and her to scramble upright. ‘You’re supposed to be defending me! Stop fraternizing with the enemy.’


	14. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martín and Andrés take a wintery walk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back to the plot, and another little change of perspective for you! I hope you enjoy :)

Andrés and Martín were taking a walk.

Martín might have called it a romantic stroll, but Andrés, angry and hurt by Martín snubbing him at the family party, would not have been so generous. In fact, he had only agreed to go on it in exchange for details about Martín’s latest robberies.

It was not common knowledge that Martín was a thief, which was saying something, given the scale of his projects.

That scale was part of the reason Andrés enjoyed Martín’s tales so much more than he did Sergio’s – he was all for idealism, but with idealism came safeguarding and caution. He preferred Martín’s bombastic, reckless robberies – all self-interest and often disaster. Martín had even been in and out of prison, not that anyone besides his closest acquaintances would have known.

Contrary to what he thought, the royal Aldovian press office had rather a lot of motivation to keep him from being internationally shamed. He had, after all, dated quite a few members of the royal family. Linked in the popular imagination, his misdemeanours reflected badly on the country as a whole.

Andrés had been the longest of those relationships – they’d been on and off since Sergio and Martín’s very public break up, and while Andrés wouldn’t have admitted it to his brother, some time before too. Something kept drawing them back together, and while neither had ever quite put their finger on it, their shared love for beauty and drama and excess had something to do with it. Martín had been the constant that had held Andrés down as he’d made his way through his first three wives. But Andrés had never suggested that they settle down together, and so Martín had drifted – away from him and into Mirko’s arms, for a time. Now he was back for Sergio.

The decision to seduce Sergio was a calculated move, and he was happy to own that fact. He knew that Sergio was never going to be his friend – there was too much animosity – but Sergio had loved him, once, and Martín needed to rekindle that spark. He rather hoped the friction between them might help him do it – and if their relationship was tumultuous, so be it. He’d never craved peace.

In fact, all Martín really wanted was access. His counsel was _good_ for Aldovia, even if Sergio couldn’t see it, but without a patched relationship with the soon-to-be king, he would be locked out forever.

It would be a good love story for the papers too, he thought: passion, betrayal, and reconciliation. Sergio needed to show himself as a stable, family man now, and Martín was the perfect choice to end the story with – beloved and trusted like a son by Jesús, and finally coming home to settle down with his heir. It had a kind of symmetry.

Of course, if Martín intended to marry for real love, it would have been Andrés – but the ear of the _second_ in line was not what he needed.

Still, the affection he felt for Andrés was part of the reason he’d talked him into this walk, over the snowy hillside, their arms brushing every now and then as they went. It felt nice to pretend for a while.

As they walked, he regaled his old flame with tales of his latest job – melting gold in Argentina. The whole affair had gone horribly wrong, and he had been lucky to escape with his life. In fact, he hadn’t escaped completely unscathed – he’d lost the sight in one of his eyes in a firefight with the police.

But _still_ : the heist sparkled with an artistry and recklessness that was lacking in Sergio’s work, and Martín revelled in every second.

He could tell Andrés did too. When he spoke, his words might be laced with practised annoyance, but he was listening with rapt attention – his eyes sparkling as Martín described the liquid gold, and how the bubbles helped them smelt it into tiny, brilliant pellets.

He missed Andrés looking at him like that.

Their Argentinian fantasy was burst too soon, however, when they heard shouts ahead of them, and talk drifted from the grand robbery to the immediate present.

‘Is that the triplets?’ Andrés asked absently, squinting into the distance. ‘I thought the whole point of that tutor was that they didn’t spend all day mucking about.’

Martín couldn’t see and didn’t answer, so they continued down the road a bit further. When they rounded a corner, a very interesting scene was unfolding beneath them.

Silene and Ágata seemed to be torturing Daniel as usual, and Andrés let out a low chuckle as the girls threw his jumper away, laughing manically. Martín smiled too, but he was far more interested in what was going on a little further up the hill.

Another pair appeared to be grappling with each other in the snow there – adults. Martín recognised the man immediately as Sergio, but it was Andrés who had to identify the woman shrieking underneath him as the prince shoved snow under her coat.

‘Rosa Marín’, Andrés said quietly, letting out a low whistle. ‘They look cosy, don’t you think?’

Martín felt hot rage flash in his veins, and he stopped moving abruptly, staring, as if hoping his gaze might alert them to his presence and stop their giggling.

It didn’t.

Even from this distance – far enough away that none of the five of them were likely to notice their presence any time soon – Sergio lit up with joy with Rosa. He was flushed and laughing and clearly eager to be close to her, and Martín ground his teeth.

He watched as Rosa escaped Sergio’s clutches only to shove him over, which sent them tumbling back down the hill in each other’s arms.

‘There’s something off about Miss Marin’, Martín said waspishly, watching with a sour expression as the couple gazed at each other in the snow, _again_ , out of breath and practically glowing.

‘What?’ Andrés asked, following Martín’s gaze, and smirking. ‘Besides the fact that she’s obviously fucking the heir to the throne?’

Martín said nothing. He found it very suspicious indeed that this Rosa Marín had popped up and enchanted Sergio days before he was due to take the crown.

He was going to break up this annoying little tryst if it was the last thing he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do let me know what you think if you have a moment - and see you tomorrow!


	15. Forest Trail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raquel continues her investigation in Aldovia's forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to another chapter! We get a little bit of media law at the beginning of this chapter (fun) and if you're a journalism nerd like me, might I suggest counting how many ethical guidelines Raquel breaks over the course of this story? I've tried to make her as ethical as possible but I just... can't. What are you even doing, Raquel? Maybe I should have made bingo cards.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is way more fun than I've just made it sound, so please sit back and enjoy.

_3 days until Christmas_

Raquel was up early again.

She had a few stories on the go now. She had a feature on Sergio’s history, based on the interview with Ágata and with the later instalments backed up via her own fact-checking mission with police forces and dark-web informants. She had the original story from the quote with the prime minister. And she also had her favourite, which she’d only started after the St Joseph’s benefit. This one was about Sergio’s behind-the-scenes efforts to properly fund the causes he cared about.

She had taken care to make her stories unsentimental – although it was becoming clear that Sergio was a good person, there still were ethical concerns, and she didn’t want to glorify crime. She actually discussed the issue with a few professors of criminality – all hypothetically of course – and quoted them liberally in the piece.

Still, she found it hard to keep the idealism and hope out of her work. In the absence of an overhaul of government – which Sergio had no control over – he was doing everything he could. He was so much more than a hollow, gold-plated figurehead, and she was fast falling for him and his ideals.

Her real conundrum, however, was the credibility of her claims. She could quote anonymous sources all day long – Ágata would, of course, not be appearing as a named source, and Sergio’s ex-accomplices were likewise not keen to have their identities revealed – but without someone willing to be interviewed openly, El País would be facing a hefty libel bill.

She had no doubt that Tamayo would run the stories anyway – they were explosive, and she had enough evidence to convince _him_ of the allegations’ truth at least – but she knew she’d be more popular with the lawyers if she could prove it outright.

The trouble was – and Raquel felt like she was betraying herself as a journalist just by thinking it – she didn’t want to find a named source. A named source would be a credible witness, and a credible witness could send Sergio to jail. And yet, exposing crime was what she came here to do.

It was a problem.

She sighed, and looked outside. She’d started using the little dressing table in her room as a desk, instead of just sitting on the bed, because in front of it was a huge window looking over the front of the palace. It was nice to watch the sun rise over the frosted trees and the little town in the distance, as she prepped lessons and headlines alike.

So, as she had done before, Raquel cast her eye over the scene: drinking in the stillness of the morning, eyes drifting from the distant town, tracing their way back to the palace.

That was when she saw him.

Sergio, alone, stroking the nose of one of the horses. He had a saddle in his hand, and it looked like he was heading off unaccompanied.

Raquel was stressed and confused, and her head was full of him already: the Sheriff of Nottingham by birth, who’d refused to fulfil his role and joined the Merry Men instead. The loving big brother to her favourite teenage triplets. And the man who looked at her with fire in his eyes.

In a second, she had made a decision.

She left a scribbled note on her bed for Ágata, just in case, grabbed her coat and her trainers, and slipped out of her room and towards the stables as quickly as she could.

She got there in time to see Sergio and his horse walking slowly towards the forest.

She looked at the other horses. She supposed that, technically, this was theft, and although she had no intention of taking a horse forever, she also thought that Sergio of all people probably couldn’t complain about it. She just hoped the riding lessons she’d had when she was nine were enough. She saddled up a calm-looking mare, hoisted herself up, and set off, following Sergio’s tracks.

They seemed to be heading for the hill they’d all been sledding down the day before, she noticed, as her horse rounded the palace and trotted down the slope. Except this time they didn’t stop when the ground levelled out. Instead, her mare plunged deeper into the trees. Every step she took blocked out more of the sunlight.

Nearly two hours later, Raquel was regretting her hasty decision. She hadn’t seen Sergio for a while, and although his tracks were still visible, it was starting to snow again, and she was not dressed to be lost in a blizzard, much less when she didn’t know her way back. If the tracks disappeared, she’d be utterly screwed. She doubted phone signal was too great underneath these trees.

She pulled on the reins, and they slowed to a walk while Raquel thought. After another half hour the tracks were very faint indeed and any hope she’d had about cornering Sergio and finally getting his point of view recorded were dwindling fast. The best she could hope for for now was getting back to the palace in one piece, and Ágata having covered for her absence.

Feeling stupid and defeated, she tried to turn, but her calm horse suddenly resisted. She refused to change course, whinnying and kicking her legs. Raquel’s nerves, already frayed, felt perilously close to breaking point. She took a deep, calming breath, and smoothed her palm across her horse’s neck, willing her to calm down, gently pulling on the reins again to get her to turn around. Her heart was in her mouth.

But her luck had completely run out. Instead of turning back the way they’d come, the horse had had enough. She let out an irritable neigh, and reared up on her back legs.

Raquel fell.

She at least had the presence of mind to drop the reins, but it still hurt. Beneath the fresh snow was compacted ice, and she crashed into it with a thud, bruising the left side of her body. Her hip and elbow were particularly painful, but she rolled away as soon as she made impact, keen to avoid the hooves of her spooked steed.

Far enough from her for safety, Raquel scrambled to her feet, brushing the snow off her body. She was going to be soaked, and the wetter she was, the less time she’d last out here, particularly when night set in. God, she hoped the triplets would sound the alarm. Better fired than dead.

Her horse still looked too spooked to approach, and in the knowledge that no one would ever find her if she was kicked and knocked out in the middle of a forest, she turned away from her, hoping that she could direct someone back to her later. With no mode of transport at all, she started heading back on foot. It was uphill all the way, but at least the effort might keep her warm. If only she had food and drink.

It was dark under the trees, and Raquel was just starting to think that the light was coming back – and the canopy thinning – when she heard a low rumble behind her, making her stop in her tracks.

She was well-versed in Aldovia’s royal family, but less so in its wildlife. Could their ecosystem support wolves?

Slowly, barely daring to breathe, Raquel turned.

As soon as she had, she wished she hadn’t. There were _three_ wolves there, slinking out of the murky darkness towards her. They were beautiful, with glittering eyes and thick, grey fur, and Raquel had never felt more terrified in her life.

She glanced around her for a weapon of some kind – a stick or a rock – something that might dissuade those teeth, shining moon bright as they advanced on her.

She couldn’t find anything.

She was going to die here, ripped apart by wolves, and Paula would never know what happened to her. She never should have come here.

She stifled a sob, and with the grim determination of the condemned, looked again for a weapon. There was a branch she might be able to wrench off a tree to her left, if she was quick. The trick would be to get to it before they charged.

She started edging towards it, painfully slowly, never looking away from them. They were following her movements, inch by inch. She’d never make it. But she had to _try_.

Everything happened at once.

Raquel made the decision and leapt for her life. Her fingers closed around the branch that she’d wanted and her weight dragged it down. It broke with a crack, sending her tumbling to the ground again. The wolves charged. Lying on the ground, Raquel swung her branch wildly. Above her, shots rang out.

It was probably the shots and not the branch, but the wolves were startled. Raquel got to her feet, branch still firmly clutched in both hands, and stepped towards them, smacking it on the ground. They contemplated her. Then another shot rang out.

This time they turned and fled, and Raquel dropped her branch to the ground and bent over, hands on her thighs, breathing hard. Relief crashed over her and made her dizzy, and she sobbed for joy and fear in equal measure. Tears ran down her face and onto the ground.

This had been _stupid_ and that had been a very near miss. 

Behind her, she heard a voice.

‘Rosa?’

The name didn’t register for a second, but then the person repeated it, and she whirled around to see Sergio. He was riding the same horse she’d seen him leave the palace on that morning. He was holding a shotgun and had rescued Raquel’s mare, who was standing beside him, docile now.

She felt like she had never been so pleased to see someone.

‘Sergio!’ she cried, running up the hill towards him on shaking legs, tears still streaming.

Sure now that it was her, he leapt off his horse and ran to meet her, enveloping her in a hug as they collided. He squeezed her tightly, and she clung right back, grateful, more than anything, to be alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What are we thinking, friends? Please let me know if you have a sec. 
> 
> See you tomorrow...


	16. The Hunting Cabin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raquel and Sergio shelter from the snow in a cabin in the forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to day sixteen, folks. I really like this chapter, and I hope you do too. I won't say anything more - enjoy the ride!

Raquel was still shaking.

At least now she was inside, clutching a warm cup of _something_ with both hands, and leaning gratefully towards a roaring fire from her armchair.

If she’d have continued for one more mile after she fell, she’d have found him before – in a little cabin buried in the forest. It had a small stable for the horses, and was filled with books and keepsakes, and big comfy chairs. She liked it a lot. Wrapped up in one of his blankets by the fire, she wondered how she would have explained her sudden appearance, if things had gone as planned and she hadn’t needed saving from wolves.

‘What _is_ this?’ she asked, holding up the steaming mug and sipping it gingerly. It burned the back of her throat, but she relished its warmth anyway.

‘It’s a cure-all my father used to make’, Sergio said, smiling at her, his eyes still concerned for her. ‘It’s mostly whiskey, actually.’

Raquel grinned, and took another small sip. It warmed her from the inside out, making her cheeks glow. She felt a little giddy, although she couldn’t entirely blame the drink for that. Sergio was sipping his own in the chair opposite, and she wondered how he looked so stoic.

They sipped in companionable silence for a while. Raquel gazed into the fire, letting the crackle and flicker of the flames soothe her. Letting her mind go blank was a balm to the past few days: the constant stream of consciousness that’d poured through her – the conflict, the secrecy, the doubt. For now, it was just her and the fire, and Sergio’s comforting presence.

Eventually he spoke up: the inevitable question, the one she’d hoped to avoid.

‘Why were you following me?’ he asked.

When she looked at him, he didn’t look particularly bothered by it, reclined comfortably in his armchair, his eyes full of warmth. And Raquel, warm and comfortable too in his presence, couldn’t feel too anxious about it either, not now the moment had arrived.

‘I was curious’, she told him truthfully.

He hummed thoughtfully to himself.

‘Assuming you didn’t know about the wolves, you could still have lost your job’, he said. His voice was still concerned, but he looked perplexed now too. ‘What curiosity is worth that?’

Raquel drew in a breath. Unease started to pollute her newfound bliss, and she shifted in her seat, setting down her drink for the first time since he’d handed it to her.

As far as she could see, there was only one avenue open to her – one she very much wanted to explore, but which was fraught with even more problems than playing dumb and trying to brush it off.

But she wanted to, and the whiskey made her brave. It was his fault, really, getting her drunk all alone in this cosy little cabin.

‘Well’, she said, leaning forward and fixing him with a warm, inviting stare, ‘I could ask you the same thing.’

Now he really did look perplexed.

‘At the shooting range’, she elaborated, wetting her lower lip with the tip of her tongue; never breaking eye contact. ‘Pressing yourself against me like that, running your hands down my arm and…’

He choked on his drink then, looking horrified, which wasn’t quite the effect she’d been going for.

‘Rosa’, he said earnestly. ‘I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It really is the easiest way to show a newcomer how to shoot. You can see exactly –’

‘Sergio’, she rasped, catching his panicked eyes again. ‘I wasn’t complaining.’

‘ _Oh_ ’, he said, pink rising on his cheeks.

‘So tell me: was _your_ curiosity worth it?’

He demurred, grinning and taking a sip of his drink, his face still a little red.

‘Well…’ he said, struggling to maintain eye contact. ‘While I wasn’t necessarily _trying_ to do anything – untoward – I’ve spent a _great_ deal of time since thinking about how to get you to agree to let me touch you like that again.’

‘Did any of your scenarios include luring me to your secret cabin in the forest?’ she asked him sweetly.

While Sergio blushed harder and tried to find the words to respond to her, Raquel’s brain, which had suddenly caught up with her feelings, was engaged in battle.

On the one hand, she wanted nothing more than to jump him right now, consequences be damned. She’d started this, and she very much wanted to finish it. His voice, the way he was looking at her – it was doing things to her and it was just _so unfair_ that it was _him_.

Because, on the other hand, she was a journalist still actively investigating him, and he didn’t even know her real name. She hadn’t deceived him about her feelings, but when she’d deceived him about everything else, she had a feeling he would still end up hurt.

No, she couldn’t do that to him. It was morally indefensible.

And so she leaned back, trying very hard not to imagine how it would feel to rip open his shirt, to hear the buttons ping away and hit the wooden floorboards as his lips connected with the sensitive skin of her neck, and changed the subject.

‘Actually’, she said, clearing her throat and searching for a reasonable segue. ‘Why _do_ you have this place? A whole palace too small for you?’

If he was surprised by her change of tone, he didn’t show it. Perhaps he thought she’d lost interest when he took too long to reply. Perhaps she’d misread the situation herself.

‘It’s not really mine’, he told her. ‘It’s my father’s. He’d come here when he needed a break. No courtiers or bodyguards or staff. Just him and the elements. He let me join him a few times.’

‘You must have nice memories here, then’, Raquel said.

She meant it. Memories oozed from every surface: photographs, origami figures, letters, handmade furniture and decorations. It was a far cry from the palace’s regimented grandeur. But Sergio looked sad.

‘I’m sorry’, she said. ‘Did I say something wrong?’

He sighed, passing his mug from hand to hand absently.

‘Last time we were here we argued’, he said, his voice low and hollow. ‘The next day I flew to Armenia. I called when he was rushed to hospital, but I never saw him in person again.’

‘What did you argue about?’ Raquel breathed. In spite of her earlier resolution, made not thirty seconds before, to keep her hands off him, she reached out a hand now, to gently cover his.

‘I said I didn’t want the throne’, he said miserably. ‘My father always thought that more change could be made from the inside, and I disagreed.’

‘And now?’ Raquel prompted, giving his fingers a squeeze.

‘And now… I still disagree that monarchy is a useful institution, but it’s what he wanted. I’ll take it in his honour.’

He looked up at Raquel with a watery smile.

‘Perhaps I can reduce its influence. I don’t know.’

They stayed like that for a while, holding hands. Sergio seemed lost in thought, and Raquel’s guilt pressed on her harder, every second that she sat there, fingers interlaced with his. She wanted to tell him – she _had_ to tell him.

‘It does strange things to people’, Sergio said, sounding pensive now, blissfully unaware of the turmoil raging in the woman beside him. ‘Martín became _obsessed_ with notoriety when we were together. I suppose that’s why he’s back.’

Raquel nodded.

‘Are you glad he’s back?’ she asked.

‘ _No_ ’, Sergio told her, eliciting another twinge of guilt as he said it, eyes blazing and fervent and fixed on her.

They were both dancing around the issue, she thought, changing the subject and being polite – but it was there; crackling flames in the background, and sooner or later one of them was going to end up in the other’s lap.

‘I’m sorry about what he did to you’, Raquel said. ‘Ágata told me.’

Sergio nodded mutely. He seemed agitated, and he got to his feet then, and Raquel watched as he wandered over to his desk. There was a journal open on it, and he ran his fingers over the page. It was such a gentle, practised gesture, and it made Raquel’s heart ache.

‘My father’s journal’, Sergio murmured, more to himself than to Raquel. ‘Before he died he left this poem. Maybe I’m paranoid, but it feels to me like a riddle.’

Raquel got up to follow his gaze, and she leaned over the journal beside him. The poem was written in a light, spidery hand:

_Frost a’sparkle in the fields_

_‘twixt the frozen minarets_

_Winter’s harvest, meagre yields_

_heavy burdens, the year’s debts_

_But from a seed, an acorn’s gift,_

_henceforth the truth will flood_

_Darkness such a secret bears,_

_and a love far greater than blood_

‘It’s nice’, she said, smiling.

She contemplated the words for a moment.

‘Sergio’, she began, choosing her words carefully. ‘From what you’ve said – I have a theory.’

He inclined his head, and she went on.

‘Well… it sounds to me like an apology. It sounds like an acknowledgement that hard work often doesn’t give the results that you want, and that this acorn – accepting the crown, perhaps – that getting it is going to be uncomfortable and _dark_ and… maybe you’ll find your own way to love your country and its people.’

Sergio looked very affected, nodding solemnly, his eyes bright.

‘A love far greater than blood’, he repeated, his voice almost a whisper. ‘Thank you, Rosa.’

They were so close that the use of her false name jarred, but still she said nothing.

In fact, she couldn’t tear her eyes from his. His expression wasn’t fevered like it had been before – he looked calm and sure and happy, even with his gaze refracted through painful memories. He stared at her like he never wanted to look away; and as he cupped her face with one of his hands, as his thumb brushed her cheek softly, her heart fluttered in her chest.

And then he leaned slowly towards her, and the seconds stretched into little eternities – painful bliss in every moment; so close, yet oceans apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos, comments and Twitter love are always appreciated (@B1ueMoonRise) ❤️


	17. The Drawer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raquel makes some questionable decisions; Martín looks out the window

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd apologise for this chapter but... I might need to save that apology for later 🤭
> 
> Please do let me know your thoughts so far if you have ANY at all - I promise I love to hear them and I'm not going to think they're weird or wrong.

Outside, one of the horses whinnied loudly, and the sudden sound against the silent forest made them both jump. Sergio snatched his hand away as if burned, and Raquel spiralled away from him, frustrated and relieved in equal measure.

‘I’d better go check on them’, Sergio said awkwardly, and Raquel nodded, resisting the urge to just grab his face and kiss him until they were both dizzy.

She stuck her hands into her pockets, cementing the decision for herself, and watched him leave with more than a hint of regret.

As soon as he’d left, however, she felt something snap.

Her hands, no longer in her pockets, were rifling through the paperwork atop the desk of their own accord. Perhaps it was a journalistic guilty conscience, born of the knowledge that she’d recorded nothing of these _very_ interesting conversations because she was more interested in what the prince’s tongue might feel like running over her skin. Or perhaps she was self-sabotaging, willing Sergio to burst in on her elbow-deep in his private affairs. She’d finally be unmasked, and she could begin the process of convincing him that amongst the deception had been a determination to uncover the truth and the nagging, exciting thrill that she had felt every time he came near, ever since their first meeting.

Whatever it was, she was frantic – leafing through older journals, flipping over yellowed papers, searching for _something_.

Outside, the horse whinnied again.

Panicking now, and too flustered to take in any of the words she was reading, Raquel tried to correct her mistake. However, instead of neatly restacking everything, she knocked a great pile of books and papers onto the floor, where it scattered.

She dropped to her knees and started grabbing everything she could find. Several papers had fallen under the desk, and she stuck her head underneath it, cursing.

Down on her hands and knees like this, Raquel spotted something strange on the underside of the desk. She didn’t suppose that many people got this perspective, but there was something there, something that looked like a lever.

Curiosity mingled with her panic and adrenaline into a single, toxic cocktail – and realising that she really couldn’t make things any worse for herself than they already were, Raquel reached out and pulled it.

Above her, out popped a thin draw that hadn’t seemed to have existed a moment before.

The paper on the floor forgotten, Raquel scrambled to her feet. Inside the draw lay a single folder. It bore the royal suit of arms, but aside from that, it was just a folder – with a thin cardboard outer that unfolded to reveal…

Outside, she heard Sergio’s crunching footsteps. She had to make a decision, now.

Unthinking, she slammed the secret draw shut, and leapt across the room. Her coat had a zip inside the lining, and she tore it down now, concealing the stolen folder inside the garment. As the doorknob squealed, signifying Sergio’s return, she scurried back.

‘Sorry’, she said, grimacing. ‘I knocked over a huge pile.’

He smiled, and helped her restack the papers that had fallen. Their hands touched a few times as they worked, but Raquel was being careful now. She couldn’t help the silly, involuntary laughs that escaped her lips, but she could be careful with her body language. She could be careful not to initiate anything.

She would not steal from him and accept his affection. She _could_ not.

They headed back to the palace not long afterwards. Sergio told her that the horses seemed cold, and would be happier in the larger, heated stables up at the palace. Raquel herself had no reason to object: she was hungry and tired and a little drunk, and she had further intoxicating secrets to uncover tonight, tucked away securely in the lining of her coat.

They rode back on the same horse – Sergio flatly refused to let Raquel ride back herself and she agreed with him and didn’t protest – the other trotting by their side. Despite her determination to avoid his affection, it was nice, she thought, to wind her arms around his waist and lean into him as the horse moved through the forest. The wind bit at her face and fingers, but there he was: warm and solid, and for a few more hours, hers.

High above them, ensconced in the warm light of the palace, Martín was getting ready for bed. He’d planned to spend some time with Sergio today, hoping to convince him of – if not his undying love – then his continued attraction to him and general usefulness around the palace. However, instead of a mellow afternoon spent sipping wine with the prince, all Martín had got was more and more frustrated as the day wore on, and as Sergio failed to appear. Even the staff didn’t have a clue.

He was still seething.

Either the staff were lying to him – and he greatly objected to being lied to – or Sergio was AWOL just days before the coronation. Either eventuality was suspicious, and Martín couldn’t think of anything more important for Sergio to be doing, days before taking the crown, than seeking advice and solace with those who would become his closest advisors. What could possibly take precedence?

Grinding his teeth, Martín decided to take one last look at the view from his bedroom window before turning in – perhaps the scenery would bring him calm and clarity while he waited for Sergio to pull himself together.

So he walked to the windowsill and tugged open the curtain… and it was then that he saw them – two tiny figures climbing off the same horse – Sergio first, and then Rosa. He caught her, hands lingering on her waist far longer than was necessary to steady her. Martín watched them carefully. They didn’t kiss goodnight, but their goodbye was still prolonged – talking with their heads together, touching whenever they could. Sergio cupped her hands in his to warm them, and he watched as she involuntarily moved to run her fingers through his hair, flinching back at the last second.

With a snarl, and a roll of his eyes, Martín drew the curtains shut again with a snap. King Jesús would have been on his side, he was sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... what are we thinking? See you kids tomorrow.


	18. The Documents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raquel opens the folder, and talks things through with Alicia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you know those tags that, uh, aren't as fun and Christmassy as the others? Strap yourselves in.

When she got back to her room, Raquel’s first thought wasn’t the folder. In fact, she could barely _think_ at all.

She felt dizzy, sick, elated and like a lead weight sat in the pit of her stomach all at once.

Half of her – the impulsive, romantic half – was revelling in what was fast becoming a new, early-stage relationship: all reciprocated feelings and tentative flirting. Her cheeks flushed easily, and she grinned soppily, replaying the afternoon in her head as she flopped down on top of her duvet: every word, every touch. Already she wanted to see him again, to coax a smile out of him, to feel his warmth, right next to her.

But there was the other half – concerned with morality and practicality – that felt utterly defeated and lost. She had come too far to be kicked out of the palace before the coronation, and by the time she finally admitted her deception, the damage would be done. She had ruined this relationship before it had even started, and every second that she spent _here_ , not hammering on his door and telling him everything, she ruined it more. She knew it was for the best, that the geographical distance was likely untenable, and that a few days’ acquaintance did not a lifelong partnership make. They just had similar views and physical attraction, and when she went back to Spain he would be angry and she would be sad, and in a few months it would just be a funny story to tell at next year’s Christmas party.

She’d faced far worse in her life, and she wasn’t going to fall apart over a man. Not that that meant it wasn’t going to hurt.

Downcast but resolute, Raquel now turned her attention to the folder in her jacket; unzipping the lining and pulling it out. Luckily, it seemed to be well-bound: none of its contents had spilled out during the long ride home.

She held it in her hands for a moment, feeling its weight. She was acutely aware that opening this folder was a final decision to focus on her job, and to push all thoughts of Sergio away.

_But her job was why she was here._

So she did it, folding back the cover and spreading the contents over the bed.

Nothing particularly scandalous leapt out at her, so she decided to work methodically – she would read from the beginning and make notes.

It was tiring, boring work, particularly so late at night, with her eyelids drooping and her head aching, but she ploughed on. The majority of the documents seemed to be lengthy and detailed non-disclosure agreements with the St. Joseph’s orphanage, but for what, she couldn’t fathom. The language was completely opaque, and the silence that ensconced the palace billowed and magnified as the second hand crawled forwards. Raquel yawned, blinking rapidly to disperse the little black letters singed into her eyeballs.

She finished another contract, and discarded it on the bed next to her. When she went back to the folder, the next document made her stare.

She picked it up gingerly, barely believing it as she lifted it towards her, reading the title at the top over and over, as if the letters might suddenly rearrange themselves. But no. It was true – printed on the page in black and white.

 _Certificate of Adoption_ , it declared.

Breathless, Raquel reached for the next document. A birth certificate for Salvador Martín. The next, a document certifying a legal name change. Salvador Martín was _Sergio_ , and the prince of Aldovia was adopted.

Raquel didn’t need to reach for her books to know that adopted children definitely were not permitted to take the throne.

 _He doesn’t know_ , she realised with a thrill of horror, clutching the papers to her chest.

This was it, though – her huge exclusive, the story that would justify all this deception, that would keep the paper out of the courts. This was what she had signed up for: to expose those who deliberately misled the public for their own private gain. She just hadn't expected to feel so utterly terrible about it; like someone was squeezing her windpipe with both hands. 

Because if she broke the story, Sergio’s life would be turned upside down.

Almost breathless, Raquel wondered if any of the other children were adopted. And if they weren’t, why had the king and queen decided to adopt when it threw up such unique constitutional problems?

Light-headedness turned to panic. The whole day had been a huge rollercoaster of emotions, and a surge of elation and dread now engulfed her, each emotion jostling for supremacy. She wanted to cry, to punch the air – but most of all, she wanted to crawl into her own bed back in Madrid, cuddle Paula to her chest, and never think of Aldovia again.

She thought she might have a breakdown if she heard Paula’s voice now, so instead of calling home, she called the only other person who she thought might help her cut through this tangled, awful mess.

Alicia picked up immediately.

‘You were right about me and Sergio’, Raquel said, too tired to give any preamble. ‘And now I have a _huge_ problem.’

Alicia’s eyes glittered, but she didn't gloat on her victory.

‘Shoot’, she said instead.

Raquel drew in a huge breath, and flopped down onto her back. Around her, the precious contracts fluttered.

‘This doesn’t leave this call, okay?

‘Oh come on’, Alicia said. ‘I’m no snitch.’

Her indignance made Raquel smile a bit. It was good to her the voice of someone from her _real_ life for a change, someone who didn’t live in a palace.

‘Well… Sergio’s adopted.’

Alicia fell off her chair.

‘What the _fuck_?’ she gasped, picking herself and her phone up off the floor. ‘What the fuck, Raquel? How do you know?’

‘I found a secret drawer’, she said, laughing at the absurdity of it all. ‘And it had everything. Adoption papers, non-disclosures… everything.’

‘How did they keep _that_ quiet?’

‘I know’, Raquel said. ‘It’s huge. But –’

‘No’, Alicia said, holding up a finger to silence her. ‘No no no. You stop right there. You are _not_ throwing away this story for a man. You’ve known him less than a week. Where have your instincts gone? _Fuck._ ’

‘But –’ Raquel started, trying to justify her uncertainty out loud. ‘If we break this then I’m done. It’s not exactly what I came for.’

‘Who gives a fuck, Raquel?’ Alicia asked. ‘Who gives a fuck? You think you’re going to get something better than this? The _only_ thing better than this would be if you found out the fucking Queen of England actually _is_ a giant reptile. Ok?’

Raquel took a deep, steadying breath, and tried on a smile.

‘Ok’, she said.

‘ _Good_ ’, Alicia said. ‘And if I don’t see this on the front-page proof tomorrow, I’m coming to Aldovia to kick some sense into your pretty little head.’

* * *

When Alicia finally hung up, Raquel knew what she had to do. She photographed the certificates, wrote up a story with a suitably salacious headline, and emailed it over to Tamayo.

She lingered over the email for a while, unsure of how to frame it. In the end her message was curt and polite, with a single, heartfelt plea.

_I know this is not my decision, but please don’t print this story under my real name. I have ongoing investigations that I’d like to complete before the coronation, and I think there’s a chance I can remain undiscovered for a few more days._

Email sent, Raquel took care to hide the folder, anxious that the morning news would trigger a palace-wide search for the intruder, and then she climbed into bed, guilt heavy in her stomach.

It was nearly 2am.

When Sergio awoke in a few hours, his whole world would be upside down. All he’d done was show her kindness, and this was how she would repay him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, don't hate me 😅


	19. Front Page

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergio deals with the morning's news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long-ish chapter for you today! I actually wasn't too keen on this chapter when I first re-read it, but it's had an extremely thorough edit (read: total rewrite) and now I'm actually very pleased with it, and I hope you like it too. This is mainly a Sergio-POV chapter, which I think is nice. 
> 
> Also: I'm really appreciating the support on this story! You're all being very kind to me, and I hope you like what I'm writing for you in return.

_2 days until Christmas_

Sergio was wandering down to the kitchen in search of breakfast, humming happily, when Prieto hijacked him.

On a normal morning he might have been annoyed – his stomach certainly growled in protest – but Sergio was distracted. Increasingly, despite the looming coronation and all the pageantry and fuss such an event entailed, his head was filled with thoughts of _her_ , and he floated above the tiresome mechanics of the state, idly wondering what she was doing, how she was feeling, how he would feel the next time she caught his eye and smiled.

His fascination with her startled him a little, now and then. He wasn’t totally immune to a pretty face, but the ten years post-Martín had not been a self-imposed punishment – he just had more important things to think about. Occasionally he’d make eye contact with someone striking in a crowd, occasionally someone’s passion or insight would floor him for a moment – but he had always moved forwards easily, feeling no need to pursue anything beyond the brief acknowledgement that a particular individual was, objectively, attractive.

It was different with Rosa.

She'd been latched onto his consciousness since he'd stolen her taxi and she'd yelled at him, and he had no desire to shake the feeling off. He just wanted more.

Dragging his mind back to the present, Sergio realised that Prieto had led them to the deserted press office, and was now observing him from behind his desk. Careful not to appear completely scattered, Sergio hastily took the seat in front of him, and met his gaze with what he hoped was a measured, regal countenance. He really hoped Prieto hadn’t been speaking to him on the way there.

Although, now that he looked at him properly, Sergio realised that the man was nervous. His eyes flicked to the door – locked, Sergio noticed – and he seemed to be holding something on his lap. Sergio didn't react; he simply waited.

He saw Prieto swallow and, slowly, without explanatory preamble, he lifted a newspaper from his lap, and placed it on the desk between them.

Sergio stared.

It was the front page of Spain’s _El País_. There was nothing unusual about that, except that it was consumed with a huge image of his own face, and just one word in block capitals: ‘ADOPTED’. Sergio had to admit it was striking.

His first reaction was amusement and exasperation: it would sell papers, but he was certain it would be followed the next day by an apologetic footnote. Perhaps the paper would be fined by the regulator, the reporter responsible given a ticking off, and the world would return to normal.

He'd probably have to field a few extra questions for a while, but he’d dealt with worse.

But then Prieto turned the screen of his computer around too, and pulled up photographs of legal documentation, sent to him by the newspaper as proof, and Sergio’s blood ran cold. Could it be true?

Of course, Prieto had already brushed it off with the paper with a brusque ‘no comment’ – as the end of the article attested. But Sergio’s mind was racing.

It wasn’t that he would be sad to lose the crown – although he knew Andrés would not take the family in a direction he approved of – it was the deception. The people who had told him they loved him more than anything had never told him the truth. They’d treated him like a child, and then they’d left him alone to deal with the inevitable discovery unprepared.

The betrayal barrelled into him like a freight train, leaving him breathless. He felt like he’d been punched.

Prieto was talking again: something about ascertaining whether the documents were genuine, but Sergio couldn’t hear him. The words washed over him: a torrent that cemented, with every passing second, the gravity of the betrayal.

He had been 39 when his father died. He wasn’t a child. Why hadn’t they trusted him?

And assuming they _were_ genuine – and now everything was laid in front of him, Sergio assumed a newspaper like _El País_ had to be pretty sure – what then?

As the most senior royal, the decision was Sergio’s alone. He could deny it all – after all, the incriminating documents were not in his possession – and take the throne anyway. But then he would be hounded by the press forever, and the little peace he had even now would be taken away. Besides, whoever had the certification now was bound to hand it over eventually. No more Robin-Hood robberies. His whole life would be an uphill struggle, a never-ending stream of denial in the face of overwhelming evidence, and for what? It was against everything he stood for.

But _for what_ , he supposed, was to protect Andrés – and, in turn, protect the country _from_ Andrés. His brother wasn’t made to be wheeled out for ribbon cuttings and state dinners. He also wasn’t made for making sensible decisions. The royal family had little real control over government policy, but they did have some control over decisions made in respect of them, and they were long-trusted advisors too.

Sergio groaned quietly. Whether true or false, this story was a huge headache. Whoever it was that had got hold of this information or, indeed, made it up – well, he wished they could have waited.

* * *

Two hours later, hiding in the piano room and desperately trying to think of a solution before Andrés found him, Sergio had yet another problem.

As if he didn’t have enough to think about, whenever he turned around, there was Martín, trying to force conversation. He thought he’d made himself clear the last time he’d hijacked him, but apparently not.

The narcissistic little voice in the back of Sergio’s head wanted to believe that Martín really did want him, but the sensible part of him knew that the only thing the man was after was the crown, and all the status and supposed power that came with it. He wanted to be the world’s first royal Bonnie and Clyde, dripping diamonds and roguish charm, and Sergio couldn’t even begin to explain to him the problems with that. The royal family was built on pageantry and repression. The whole point was to never be discovered, not parade his side job for the world to see. It was already a problem as it was.

Sergio could only assume he’d not read the news yet this morning. He’d rather hoped the silver lining of it all would be that Martín would back off.

But instead, as Sergio held his head in his hands and fought the urge to punch something, there he was, saying something derogatory about Rosa, which grated on his nerves even more. He thought he heard the word _peasant_ mixed into the stream of abuse, and in spite of himself he looked up, fixing Martín with a disbelieving glare. Perhaps the _something_ was going to be Martín.

‘If Rosa is a peasant, then the people you claim to want to “help” with our robberies are far lower’, he said, voice dripping with scorn. Christ, why did Martín think that he’d buy this bullshit?

‘Don’t be naïve, Sergio’, he was saying. ‘Rosa wants something out of you, just like I do. The only difference is that I would be a useful partner and she… well, I think we can both agree she’s totally unsuitable.’

‘Thank you for your opinion’, Sergio snapped.

‘She’s not like you and I, Sergio. She doesn’t know what it is to be part of this family.’ He laughed. ‘They never do.’

‘What, _peasants_?’ Sergio asked, getting up now, in the vain hope that he could get Martín to leave.

‘You may not see it now, Sergio, but I do care about you still. It’s why I’m saying this.’

The downside of getting up, it transpired, was that instead of backing off, Martín was able to gently trail his fingertips down Sergio’s chest, an odd expression on his face. The gesture might once have sent his pulse racing – now all it elicited was the overwhelming desire to swat his hand away.

Sergio restrained himself, however, hopeful that if he let Martín say his bit as quickly as possible, he could propel him out of the room and get on with fixing this whole mess.

But Martín didn’t stop there; he met Sergio’s gaze, and reached up and kissed him. His mouth was soft and warm, and the fit of their lips should have been comfortingly familiar, but all Sergio felt was cold. He didn’t move, and after a few seconds, Martín pulled back.

‘You care about my position’, Sergio told him, for what felt like the millionth time. ‘Martín, I’m tired of this.’

‘It’s part of you’, Martín said.

‘Yes’, Sergio interrupted, voice terse. ‘The only part that interests you.’

Martín’s eyes flashed: from softness to anger in a moment.

‘You’ll regret this’, he told him.

* * *

As Sergio and Martín spoke, Raquel passed by with the triplets, all bundled up in coats and scarves to brave the snow again, this time in search of last-minute gifts. She heard his voice, and heavy as she was with guilt and tenderness, her head had turned on instinct. She wanted to know that he was ok.

She didn’t hear the words that were being said, because Daniel and Silene were laughing beside her. All she got was a snapshot of a moment, no longer than the time it took to blink. And it shook her, and she turned back to her charges, heart in her throat.

The image burned into her retinas: Martín’s mouth on Sergio’s, his fingers inches from his waistband.

She knew had no right to feel hurt after what she’d done, but her body betrayed her anyway: she felt hot with anger and disappointment, which dropped from her chest and pooled in her stomach like lead.

* * *

After they returned to the palace, laden with expensive gifts, Raquel managed to escape. She said she wanted to call Paula, and they let her head back to her bedroom alone. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t what she was actually going to do.

Tamayo had been blowing up her phone all day, and she needed to get him to calm down before the incessant buzzing gave her away. The story had broken and she knew it was a big deal, but she didn’t see how she could do more, not until she had more completed stories, which he knew she was working on.

As Tamayo’s phone rang out, Raquel wondered vaguely if Sergio had crawled back into Martín’s familiar arms to seek comfort after learning about his parentage in the news.

God, she really had shot herself in the foot in every way possible.

Tamayo picked up, and for once he didn’t open with an order – instead, it was all praise. She felt quite taken aback, and her guilt vanished for a moment, to be replaced with tentative pride.

‘Can we discuss a pay rise when I’m back, then?’ she asked him, feeling brave.

The answer was an unexpected and unequivocal _yes_.

Then, of course, the conversation moved onto her next steps with the story, and Raquel nodded and made notes and told him as much as she knew.

‘Usually I’d need a reaction from the palace’, Tamayo went on. ‘But the official line is currently “no comment” – although they’ve seen the documents we have and they know they’re in deep shit.’

He chuckled to himself delightedly. Raquel’s guilt returned.

‘I’ll try to find out what they’re going to do about it’, Raquel said. ‘It looks like Andrés will be king, though.’

‘All the better for us’, Tamayo said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until tomorrow, amigos! Please do drop me a comment/kudos if you're feeling generous, or come and say hi on Twitter (@B1ueMoonRise) x


	20. Late Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergio invites Raquel out for a stroll in the moonlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First: please note I've put the rating up. I should have from the beginning, but I was on the fence about it, and while I still am, I'd rather it was too high than too low.
> 
> If you want to get in your feelings about this chapter, I'd suggest some melancholy background music. I've been editing to folklore this morning.

When Raquel returned to the triplets after her call with Tamayo, she thought Ágata was treating her differently – more coolly. They wrapped presents together, and although Silene and Daniel were as bubbly as usual – writing obscene limericks on their labels and giggling as they picked out the most hideous wrapping paper they could find, Ágata didn’t join in, at least not with Raquel. She was polite, but that was it, and Raquel just knew she’d seen the news. She supposed she should be grateful that she hadn’t gone straight to her older brother.

Raquel tried to orchestrate a situation where they could be alone and she could either explain herself or deny it, but Ágata carefully avoided her – accompanying Silene to the bathroom twice and, when Raquel thought she’d finally managed it, producing Daniel’s ringing phone out of nowhere and rushing away to give it back to him. Raquel heard her pick it up halfway down the corridor and start chatting away to Mónica before her voice became too faint to hear.

* * *

Now, with the presents wrapped and the triplets relieved of lessons for the day, Raquel once again found herself alone in her room, fretting. Even more than before, she was on borrowed time. She’d filled her evening with research, but as the moon rose in the sky, she couldn’t ignore her worry any more.

Perhaps at this very moment Ágata was breaking it to Sergio, and security were rushing along the corridor to bundle her out into the snow. She wondered what he'd look like as he watched her go.

There was a sharp rap on the door, and it made Raquel jump. Had she willed the situation into existence through pure dread?

But the person outside wasn’t a snarling security guard. It was Sergio.

Perhaps that was worse.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked him carefully, searching his face for evidence of her betrayal.

‘Yes’, he said.

He was holding his hands stiffly by his sides and he looked nervous. Raquel swallowed.

‘Would you come for a walk with me?’ he said.

Raquel did a double-take.

‘A walk?’ she repeated.

‘Yes’, Sergio said. ‘I’ve had a difficult day, and I would – very much – enjoy your company right now.’

* * *

It was a beautiful night for a walk. The sky was clear, and the moon lit up the snow-covered gardens and the wide, sweeping hills beyond in brilliant, ethereal blue-white. Raquel felt like she was inside a snow globe. The scenery was far too beautiful to exist outside of a fairytale.

And to complete the storybook picture, beside her walked a prince unobsessed with money and status, a man who wanted to tear down the very institutions that gave him his power and privilege.

He was quiet now, looking out over the hills just like she was, but after a while, he turned his attention on her.

Raquel still wasn’t looking at him, but she could feel him watching her anyway. She hoped all he saw was her wonder at the stars, and not the black, twisted deceit that lived just behind her eyes.

He seemed to make a decision, and the next thing she knew, he’d snaked his arm around her shoulders. She glanced up at him, surprised.

‘Do you usually take the staff out for romantic walks in the snow?’ she joked, trying to keep things light, afraid already of the intensity of his gaze and the butterflies in her gut.

‘Rosa…’

‘I saw you and Martín earlier’, she told him.

It was all she could think of to deflect the purpose with which he was saying her name and, she reasoned, it was true. If she had not betrayed him far worse already, she would have been hurt, and righteously angry that he continued to court her while he embraced others behind closed doors.

She stepped away, and his arm fell limply by his side.

‘Rosa’, he said again, his voice low and serious. ‘I was trying to get him to leave.’

She laughed then, incredulous and perhaps a little angry after all.

‘That’s not how I would go about getting someone to go away.’

He sighed, and they stopped walking. In the distance, an owl called.

‘I wasn’t expecting it’, he said. ‘But believe me when I say there isn’t anything between Martín and I. There couldn’t be.’

That statement made her breathless, but she cut in, afraid of what she might do if he finished that tantalising train of thought. She knew where he was going; knew instinctively that he was telling her the truth, even though she couldn’t offer a word of it in return.

‘Sergio’, she breathed.

She took another step away, as if proximity was the reason for the fire in his eyes, the unfinished sentences; as if she could solve it all, if only she was far enough away from him.

‘It’s impossible’, he told her, eyes never leaving her panicked face. ‘Because I’m in love with you.’

Raquel turned. It physically hurt, to hear him say that, and know how quickly he would soon take it back. She would rather not have it at all.

He saw her anguish, and instead of being hurt by her silence, grabbed both her hands in his and brought them to his chest. Just as she felt his honesty instinctively, he too knew that this was not a rejection, but something more complicated.

She wished he didn’t see through her like this; or rather she wished they’d met some other time, as different people, when she wasn’t the person destined to break the heart she was being offered: fragile and beautiful in the winter air.

‘I’m in love with you’, he repeated, grinning sheepishly.

The pain in Raquel’s chest spiked and twisted, but with his shining eyes and beaming smile, the last vestiges of her restraint evaporated into the night. Who was she to argue with him?

She crashed her mouth onto his, and everything disappeared.

He stumbled a little in surprise, but his hands moved automatically to cup her face. The gentleness of his touch was a glorious, soothing balm to the wound she’d carved into herself, and in response, she snaked her arms around his torso, pulling him against her, greedy for more. So he kissed her fervently then, almost desperately, his hands now in her hair, now around her waist, and she responded in kind.

She wanted to live forever in this feeling: her arms around his neck, strong hands lifting her up to get a better angle, where nothing in the world mattered, _nothing at all_ except for the feeling of his beard against her skin, her teeth tugging at his lower lip, the thrill that ran through her as his tongue moved against hers.

Those things that had weighed so heavy, moments before, paled into insignificance. They swayed together, drunk on one another, his touch healing her with every moment that passed.

And Sergio was as lost as she was, unwilling to relinquish his hold on her, barely releasing her to allow them to gasp for air before reclaiming her mouth with his own.

_Oh fuck._

Her self-awareness spiking, Raquel managed to gasp out _I need to tell you something_ , but one look in Sergio’s eyes and it was mutually agreed: whatever it was, it could wait for tomorrow.

How they got back to Sergio’s quarters undisturbed would later be a mystery to both of them. It was a blur of frenzied kisses, breathless promises, and he half-carried her, only setting her down to trail kisses down her neck behind pillars and against doorframes.

Raquel felt giddy, like she’d downed half a bottle of wine on her way up the stairs. Sergio was fumbling with the lock, and she was utterly gone – just his warmth, the smell of his skin enough to fuel her high.

He succeeded in unlocking the door, and in other circumstances she might have been curious to see his space, to pull titles off his bookshelves with a teasing grin. But she wasn’t, and he wasn’t in any state to give her a tour – both of them were far too interested in divesting the other of their clothes as soon as possible.

His kisses burned like fire on her bare skin, trailing down from her throat to her belly. She wound her fingers into his curls as he continued the journey, his tongue eliciting involuntary gasps. Sweat rose on their skin, mingling when he rose to catch her mouth again, when she wrapped her legs around his waist. And then his gasps joined hers – until all they were was whispered prayers, and skin, and heat – until each other’s names were ripped, unbidden, from their lips.

Afterwards, they lay cuddled up together in bed. She rested her head on his chest, and he had his arm around her. His thumb was absently stroking the skin of her arm.

Raquel felt deliriously happy. She didn’t have the bandwidth to feel guilt – every second of this evening had been perfect and honest and _right_ , and looking up at Sergio’s soppy smile, she knew he felt the same.

They talked in the low, hushed voices of new lovers – pausing every few minutes to kiss each other, to touch each other’s faces. She told him about her life in Spain – her mother and daughter and friends and, when prompted, Alberto. She used their real names, although she invented wildly when it came to her workplace. She was a senior tutor, Alberto a star researcher.

In return, he told her about his early life – his brother Andrés, who he loved, but who exasperated him daily. His three youngest siblings – a miracle by all accounts, but one that had taken his mother’s life. He didn’t say much about her, but the little he got out was in solemn, reverent tones. He talked about how he’d been trained since birth to be king, as the heir apparent, but how what had once seemed like his calling had soured as the years crept by, and now seemed like a cruel trick, laced with betrayal. And he spoke of his father’s death, a year ago, his eyes swimming with tears.

Their conversation faded into the mundane and silly as the hours crept by, and just before the sun started to rise again, their whispers failed, to be replaced with the deep, slow breathing of slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment box available for all thoughts, feelings and incoherent screaming into the void 🖤


	21. The Intruder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martín plots revenge on his romantic rival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and happy Yule/Winter Solstice! Today I'm attempting to bake a Yule log - wish me luck.
> 
> I read the word 'dread' in the last chapter's reviews so many times it stopped looking like a real word - and while I AM sorry, I am also very pleased that you're invested. I hope this chapter continues to make you feel things 😅

As the new couple drifted off to sleep, plans were being set in motion.

It was late, and Martín had been reading by the light of his bedside lamp. He’d seen the news by that point and he was rattled – not only by the conundrum it presented him with, but also by the palace’s seeming lack of concern about the whole ordeal.

Sergio had seemed stressed when they’d spoken, but there was no halting of preparations for the next day’s coronation, no rush of courtiers around Andrés. In fact, Andrés had seemed to be in a worse mood than Sergio that day, and just as eager to avoid him, and the only conclusion Martín could draw was that – unbelievably – Sergio was going to brush off the report and take the crown anyway. Martín was almost proud – perhaps there was a spark of selfishness in the man after all, hidden under all his tedious posturing. And at least it would mean that all his efforts wouldn’t go completely to waste.

Or maybe the reports were baseless.

Realising that his mind had wandered, Martín set down his book. It was on engineering, and usually the calculation and precision would have held him in their thrall, but not tonight. It was clearly much too late.

He marked his page, and got up to stretch his legs one last time, and to draw the curtains.

He’d expected to look out at the frosty hillside and the trees, just like every night, take a deep breath, and turn back to his bed.

He wasn’t sure then how he was going to win Sergio back – or if, indeed, he should pivot his attentions back to Andrés – but he was beginning to accept that, either way, it was going to be a long, difficult task. _Fine_. If what he had to do to prove his loyalty was to stick around when all the other well-wishers gradually drifted away, he was willing. And, in any case, if Sergio was his prize, it seemed he needed to get rid of Rosa Marín first. Perhaps everything would be clearer in the morning.

Head full, Martín refocused his eyes. But when he reached the window, what caught his eye wasn’t the cloudless night sky or the postcard-perfect scene.

It was the couple kissing fiercely by the front gate. 

All thought of sleep left him, and anger flared in his chest. Regardless of whether he and Sergio ended up together, this was a matter of principle. He refused to be rejected in favour of a woman who’d not set foot in a palace two weeks ago.

He watched them stumble back inside, completely engrossed in one another, and he snuck out, barefoot. As he dashed past the bedside table, he grabbed his phone, and slipped it into his pyjama pocket.

He came to a halt a floor up from the main staircase – on a balcony overlooking the entrance hall. And sure enough, there they were – hand in hand, rushing, but unable to stop themselves from stuttering to a halt every few paces to kiss each other against the pillars.

Martín watched, eyes narrowed, ideas swirling in his mind.

And, as they stumbled up the main staircase – as Sergio pressed Rosa against the bannister, _again_ , one hand in her hair and one under her coat – Martín pulled out his phone. He wasn’t quite sure what drove him to do it. It was instinct. An insurance policy.

And, frankly, it served the pair right. He’d seen more decorum and restraint from Silene and Aníbal.

He watched them until they reached the top of the staircase and – as he had expected – continued on towards Sergio’s quarters together.

Martín smiled. His half-formed plans were beginning to crystallise in his mind, and this unfortunate turn of events was also the perfect opportunity for him. He hoped she got what she wanted tonight, because he didn’t intend to allow her another.

As they disappeared along the corridor, Martín padded downstairs. He was headed in the opposite direction, towards the room Rosa _should_ have returned to.

There were many reasons why one sought refuge in a prince’s bed, as he himself knew all too well, but love – or lust – was rarely the full story. And Rosa had slotted herself so neatly into Sergio’s life in so little time, that Martín was surprised that he was the only person who was suspicious. But then, he supposed, it wasn’t only Sergio she’d snuggled up to – the usually disruptive force that was Sergio’s three youngest siblings was also under her spell. 

It was all far too calculated to be luck. 

Her door was locked, but he made quick work of that; shutting it silently behind him as soon as he was inside. And then he got to work.

He started with her handbag. It was always the best place to start with women, he found: a little snapshot of their life, spelled out in lip balm and anti-bac wipes.

He just didn’t expect to see such immediate results.

He flicked open her passport to see _Raquel Murillo_ printed underneath Rosa Marín’s face and, suddenly, this mission to get rid of a romantic rival had got a lot more _fun_. The possibilities lined up in front of him, and he felt the same thrill he did when he sat down to plan his next robbery. It was the hunt.

He’d thought, realistically, she was just a down-and-out tutor with a royal fetish and a penchant for selling sleazy tabloid stories – and he could respect that, up to a point – getting in the prince’s pants would kill two birds with one stone.

But a fake name…

A quick Google threw up some very interesting results. A _journalist_ no less, divorced, who’d recently accused her ex-husband of violence. And now she was here, but not to seek solace in Sergio’s arms – to deceive them all, to sell their story.

Martín had half a mind to burst in on them right then, and watch her try to lie to them both while refastening her bra. But no… he had a much better idea.

He replaced the passport carefully, zipped up the bag, and repositioned it beside the bed, where she’d left it.

If she was a journalist, there was a strong chance that the adoption story was actually true… and if it was, then she would have the documents in this room. And if it was true… well, if it was true, she could have Sergio. He already had Andrés’s admiration.

But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t drag them both down anyway, a final _fuck you_ as they sank; and a warning, to those who would try to drag him down in future.

Frustratingly, the search for the adoption documents proved far more difficult than his discovery of her passport – he scoured the draws and found nothing. He checked the bottom of the wardrobe, under the pillows. He checked under the furniture, on top of the furniture. He even tried her coat. Nothing.

He was just considering lifting up the mattress when his eyes fell on a large rug covering most of the floor. His heart leapt.

He rolled it back and, sure enough, concealed beneath it, there was a slim folder covered in cardboard, the royal seal etched on the front. He flicked through it, grinning, and clutched his prize to his chest.

Now he just needed to make a call. Timing was everything. It would be the final triumph of aesthetics over Sergio's tired, bankrupt ethics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... apologise. Again 😬


	22. Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raquel starts to face the consequences of her actions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks! Today's offering is quite a long chapter, which I hope you enjoy (and which I hope makes up for the emotional damage).
> 
> Before we get going, I also just want to say thank you to every single person who has left a comment - you are incredible and ily x

_Christmas Eve_

Raquel woke to bright sunlight in an unfamiliar bed.

It took her a moment to realise where she was and what had happened. She felt tired and happy and a little tender, and although she wasn’t in her room this was undoubtedly part of the palace.

Then it all flooded back, and she snuggled deeper under the covers, eyes squeezed shut and a stupid grin on her face as the events of the night before swam before her. She wanted to stay here forever, curled up under the covers that smelled like him.

She rolled onto her side to share her joy with Sergio, and it was then that she realised the cause of her giddy mood wasn’t there. The other side of the bed was cold, and her happiness dampened a little. She knew today had to be a busy day for him, but she wouldn’t have minded being woken by his kisses, no matter the hour.

Awake now anyway, Raquel got out of bed and went to look for her clothes. They were no longer discarded all over the floor, but neatly folded in a pile beside the bed. She picked each item up and put them on one by one, grinning stupidly as she recalled exactly how they’d ended up on the floor in the first place. The shirt she’d been wearing had lost a number of buttons, and if she recalled correctly, Sergio’s hadn’t fared much better – not that she imagined he was still wearing it.

She was fully dressed and ready to sneak back to her own room when she saw the note – neatly folded and placed on the dresser beside her side of the bed. She hurried back.

 _Rosa_ , it read.

For the first time that morning, a twinge of something like guilt started to intrude into her bliss.

_I am sorrier than I can say to leave you this morning, but unfortunately there are many things I must do before the coronation tonight._

_I have told my younger siblings that you’re not well this morning, and that lessons are cancelled until further notice. Please stay here as long as you would like; I have made sure you will not be disturbed._

_I very much hope to see you at the evening ball._

_With love,_

_Sergio_

Raquel pressed the note to her chest, heart fluttering. She felt utterly ridiculous swooning over a short note that was a courtesy more than anything else, but she couldn’t help it. Even in his absence, his presence now filled her senses, and she found herself nodding as she read the final line – she was ridiculously, embarrassingly excited to see him later too.

She tried to pull herself together, and with the note tucked in her pocket she made her way back to her own room. She saw a few other members of staff on her way, but there was no reason for them to suspect where she’d been – she was perfectly free to roam around the palace.

 _But maybe not around the prince’s bedroom_ , she thought, smirking.

* * *

Once showered and redressed in fresh clothes, she flung herself down on her own bed.

The trouble was, instead of rejuvenating her, the water had acted as a lead weight. As she scrubbed Sergio’s scent from her skin and hair, reality started to hit. The horrible, crushing guilt returned tenfold, staining last night’s happy memories. By the time she was pulling on tights the entire world – golden just half an hour before – was a gloomy, tarnished pewter.

Worse, with no lessons to take – or pretend to take, at least – she was at a bit of a loss as to what to do. Her articles were all written up – she’d send them over to Tamayo after the coronation as she didn’t trust him with them beforehand – and there wasn’t much else she could dig up.

She supposed the most pressing task was figuring out exactly what was happening with this coronation – she could still beat the other reporters on that story, and she would hurt no one in the process. Sergio’s note implied that it was still on, but just because he had a lot to do didn’t necessarily mean that it was _his_. He was still the most experienced member of the royal family, and Andrés being crowned might actually give him more to do – the younger prince had not, after all, been groomed for the role in the same way Sergio had.

But that task would involve tracking down Sergio, and as reality reared its head, Raquel realised she wasn’t excited about seeing him again at all. It had all gone much too far, and it wasn’t fair to let him believe the world was golden when she’d already chipped all the paint off.

Maybe it was a good thing he’d not been in bed this morning. Maybe it would already all be over.

Miserable now, Raquel's spiralling thoughts were interrupted by Ágata, who burst into her room with a noise akin to a war cry. Raquel sat bolt upright.

‘You fucked him, didn’t you?’ she demanded.

She was just a teenager, but the fury that radiated from her was a palpable force, and Raquel could only gape wordlessly.

‘You come into our lives, fuck up my brother’s life like you promised me you wouldn’t, and then you _sleep with him_?’ Ágata went on. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’

‘Ágata, I –’

‘You should see him’, she said, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘I’ve never seen him look this happy, even with the world crashing down around him, and what’s going to happen tonight? You’re just going to fuck off back to Spain?’

‘No, I –’

‘You promised us’, Ágata repeated. ‘You promised _me_ , you fucking _snake_.’

Raquel closed her eyes. Ágata’s voice was cracking horribly, and angry tears splashed from the girl's eyes.

Raquel had nothing.

It was all crashing over her, every reason why last night shouldn’t have happened, why she should have shut the door in his face and made an excuse, why when she said _I need to tell you something_ she should have pushed him away and forced it out.

There were so many things she could have prioritised in that moment, so many people who she might have spared some pain, but instead she’d looked the other way and twisted the knife deeper.

She couldn’t even bring herself to voice the fact that talking about this was incredibly inappropriate, as if _sex_ was more offensive that what she’d done. It would sound so trite, a pathetic little parody of protection.

‘I didn’t intend to sleep with him’, she said instead.

It was her only defence. And it didn’t matter.

Ágata scoffed.

'And the front-page news?'

‘I’m a journalist', Raquel said, meeting Ágata's eyes with caution. 'I can’t sit on something like that.’

‘ _Right_ ’, drawled another voice, horribly familiar. ‘It’s all just a game to you, isn’t it? Heaven forbid someone else gets to your little discovery first.’

Silene appeared in the doorway, a snarl on her lips.

‘It doesn’t reflect badly on your brother’, Raquel said, looking from one girl to another. ‘Being adopted isn’t a bad thing.’

‘But it does mean he won’t get the crown’, Ágata said. Beside her, Silene started clapping, slow and sarcastic.

‘Instead _Andrés_ will’, Silene said. ‘Congratulations. Everybody loses.’

‘Will he?’ Raquel asked.

It was half a question – for, truly, she still had no idea what was going on in the belly of the palace as they spoke – and half an idea. It was wild and desperate, but it was her only stab at mitigating the hurt she’d already caused. Messy, but a chance.

‘As far as I’m aware, the palace is denying it. And no one knows where the documents are – except me.’

She watched as the two girls exchanged a glance. A tiny flare of hope flickered to life, hot and painful, but _there_.

‘Do you actually know what’s happening with the coronation?’ she asked them.

Another glance passed between the sisters. Raquel held her breath.

‘Let’s say we don’t know what’s happening with the coronation’, Ágata said, sizing Raquel up.

‘ _And_ let’s say that’s it’s possible to convince Sergio to take a crown he’s not legally entitled to’, Silene added. ‘Which it isn’t.’

‘Right’, Ágata said. ‘But let’s say it is. What are you actually proposing? And why the _fuck_ should we believe you’re going to do it?’

Raquel took a long, steadying breath. In front of her, Ágata and Silene framed her exit, arms crossed, anger etched into their young faces.

‘I want you to give them to him’, she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. ‘And I suppose it’s up to him what he does with them, but –’

‘But what?’ Silene cut in, still vicious.

‘But I think he should take the throne', she said, her confidence growing. 'Morally, it's the best option. If he agrees, he could destroy the real documents, and have fakes appraised instead. I’m not an expert. All my editor has is awful phone photos. It would be easy.’

But Ágata was shaking her head.

‘I don’t believe you’, she said, spreading her arms and smiling ruefully. ‘This is such an obvious set up.’

‘Try me’, Raquel challenged. 

She waited for Ágata to make a suggestion - something to sign, a filmed confession - but before she could, Silene jumped in.

‘What’s in it for _you_?’ she demanded, eyes narrowed.

‘My other stories are still exclusives’, Raquel said. She glanced sideways at Ágata, who still looked suspicious. ‘The adoption story makes better headlines, but if I got it wrong it was an honest mistake. And –’

‘And maybe you can still sell yourself as the good guy to Sergio?’ Ágata asked, now incredulous.

Raquel shook her head. She’d known from the beginning that she and Sergio were a lost cause, and she wondered if that was the reason she’d offered so little protest last night, in spite of everything.

So instead of answering, she just sighed, walking past the teens to the rug at the end of the bed. She started to roll it up as they looked on. She could no longer fix her mistake, but if she could soften the fall even a little...

‘It was here’, she breathed, eyes wide at the bare wood floor. ‘I swear it was here.’

She buried her face in her hands.

‘It was here’, she repeated. Her voice sounded hollow and far off.

Something in her shock seemed to soften Silene and Ágata, because they helped her turn the room upside down, but to no avail. The folder was gone. She showed them the documents on her phone, but the real thing was nowhere to be found.

The three of them sank onto the edge of her bed. Raquel felt defeated, and even Ágata and Silene looked thoroughly worn out.

‘This is probably your biggest fuck up so far’, Silene observed.

Mutely, her sister nodded her agreement.

* * *

As Raquel, Ágata and Silene worked out the best plan of attack to unmask possible folder-stealing suspects, the folder thief in question was having a delightful morning.

He’d started it with a pleasant stroll into town to meet a friend, a parcel tucked under his arm. He’d been friends with Mr Torres - a technician at the Aldovian Mint - since his twenties, even though the gentleman was a little older than him. They’d bonded over the craftmanship that went into banknotes, and every Christmas Martín would send him a gift.

Torres had seemed pleased when Martín suggesting meeting up this year, and so they’d headed to a cosy pub just off the main high street. Martín had handed over his gift – a bottle of whisky from the palace refinery, like every year – and they fell into easy conversation, each with a steaming mulled cider in front of him.

After half an hour, Martín had fabricated an emergency and left, and Torres, as he’d counted on, had let him go good-naturedly, and as he sat and finished his cider, alone, peeled back the wrapping on his present absent-mindedly.

Martín smiled. It would take Torres a few hours to wrestle with his conscience, of that he was sure. But Torres was not paid well for his skills at the bank, and, when the palace was abuzz with glamorous royals and relatives primping for the upcoming ball and coronation, he would finally make his decision. He would realise that the documents were part of his gift and, heart pounding, he would appear on the doorstep of the editor of the Aldovian Standard.

When Sergio appeared in front of the reporters on his way to the ball, at 6pm sharp, the adoption story would be confirmed once and for all, and any hope of him becoming king dashed forever.

When Raquel Murillo arrived with the triplets, her fate would be even worse – unmasked for who and what she was, she would be eaten alive with no chance to prepare.

For Martín had not only gifted Torres the folder that he'd found in Raquel's room. Alongside the adoption and birth certificates and the non-disclosures, he had slipped in some extras of his own – a print-out of her profile from the El País website, and the photograph he’d taken of her kissing the prince just the other night.

* * *

The search of Martín’s room proved fruitless, as did that of Andrés’s and Mirko’s and Radko’s. Ágata and Silene – joined later by Daniel – were keen to start searching the staff’s rooms too, but the afternoon was wearing on, the light dwindling, and the Christmas Eve Ball hung heavy over all of them. It felt to Raquel like her execution, and no matter what she did, she couldn’t stay the executioner’s hand.

So, they split up with an agreement to meet outside Raquel’s room at 5.30pm, and head down to the ball soon after. The royal family were supposed to arrive around 6pm, and it would take them less than five minutes to walk to the Royal Grand Hall, just down the road from the palace.

Raquel dressed quickly, feeling numb. This time, she put on her nice dress – a light, pretty green with a neckline that plunged to the waist and floaty, layered skirts. She loved it and didn’t get the chance to wear it much – but as she smoothed down the skirts and started work on her hair, she wished she were anywhere but here. She even wished she was outside with the other reporters – defeated in her quest to get an exclusive, but feeling cheerful about the prospect of royal hospitality and the chance to snap a picture of aristocrats kissing people they shouldn’t in the bathroom.

Success had turned out to be so much worse than she imagined.

Still, if she was going to crash and burn, the least she could do was go out looking good. If tonight was the night he learned of her betrayal, she wanted him to remember her like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave your questions, comments and death threats below :)


	23. The Christmas Eve Ball: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raquel and the triplets attend Aldovia's Christmas Eve Ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and happy Christmas Eve Eve! We're so close now, and things are HAPPENING. I only hope you will continue to like my little Christmas story as I begin to wrap everything up (pun intended). Today, me and my chapter are vibing with 'Arcade' by Duncan Laurence, if you need musical accompaniment.
> 
> And, please don't forget to leave me a comment if you're following along - I am constantly dying to know what people think, and I always always always reply :)

_Christmas Eve, 3.30pm_

Raquel was resolute.

She stood, looking at herself in the mirror with shoulders squared.

The dress was beautiful – hugging her torso and flowing gently over her hips – and she’d slicked her hair back into a bun until it gleamed. A few rings glittered on her fingers, and her lips were dyed deep purple.

She looked, and she contemplated her armour, and her heart hammered in her chest.

In two and a half hours, it would be too late.

She needed to find him; but where would he be? Would he be getting dressed? Being briefed by the press office? Brushing up on protocol for the coronation?

Pulling on her shoes and grabbing a clutch, Raquel hurried from her room. She had to do this, and it had to be _now_.

She tried his bedroom first, but it was locked now, and no amount of hammering elicited a response, so she moved on. Next, the press office. She found Prieto, looking harried, but he was none the wiser as to Sergio’s whereabouts – which, she learned, was the reason he looked so stressed. She left with strict instructions to report back should she discover where he was.

And then a thought occurred to her, and she doubled back the way she’d come. She just hoped she could remember the way.

It took her fifteen minutes of hurrying up and down identical corridors to find the place she was looking for… but all too soon, there he was, playing a gentle, meandering tune to himself on the piano. He was already dressed in full ceremonial garb, but his eyes were shut, as if lost in a dream. Raquel watched him from the doorway as she had the first time, dreading the moment he would open his eyes and see her, and she would break him, as kindly as she could.

He finished the melody and as the last, lingering note drifted away, Raquel could only stare. He was stretching and blinking as if waking from sleep, unaware, for the last few precious seconds, who the person who he'd given his heart to really was.

And then he moved, and he caught her: standing there in the doorway, smiling sadly.

‘Rosa’, he said, smiling back at her. His whole face lit up when he noticed her, and she had to work to maintain her own sunny outer, just for now. ‘I’m glad you found me.’

Raquel swallowed, and walked towards him, halting on the other side of the piano. She watched his eyes trace the cut of her dress as she moved, snapping up to meet her eyes, a guilty blush rising in his cheeks. Her heart swelled. She was _fucked_.

‘Me too’, she said. Her voice sounded odd and scratchy. ‘Sergio, I have to tell you something.’

He nodded, moving then to kiss her, and in that single second, everything shifted.

She stepped back, avoiding the gesture, and a little crease appeared between his eyebrows.

‘Is everything alright, Rosa?’

She shook her head and swallowed, hard.

She could feel the heat building behind her eyes, but she was _not_ going to cry, of that she was certain... because she was not the victim here.

So she took a breath instead, and opened her mouth.

‘My name is Raquel Murillo, your majesty’, she said. She stumbled over his title, unused as she now was to it, but she didn’t break eye contact as she spoke. She was determined not to waver, because he didn’t deserve that. ‘I’m a journalist. It was me who discovered the story about your parentage, and –’

He was recoiling already, instinctively backing away from her, abject horror on his face. It took everything in her to stop her voice from cracking, to prevent her tears from spilling over. But no. She would get this out.

‘ – I came here because I thought I could expose you. I thought I could finally put together evidence to prove that you are a spoiled, dangerous criminal, but that’s not what I discovered.’

She could see his hands shaking. He sat down and gripped the seat of the piano to steady himself, but he couldn’t hide how his face crumpled in on itself, his eyes unfocussed, his mouth a hard, awful line, lips pressed together.

‘I couldn’t sit on a story like that, not for anyone', she said. 

He looked up.

‘You could have warned me’, he said quietly. His voice was as shaky as his hands.

‘I couldn’t’, Raquel said, her lower lip trembling too. ‘I _couldn’t_.’

He got up then, towering over her, his sadness morphing into quiet, dangerous rage.

‘Give me one good reason why you couldn’t tell me the truth.’

‘Because…’ Raquel said, trembling. ‘Because I was scared you'd kick me out. And I –’

‘What?’ he snapped.

‘And I’m in love with you too.’

The words tumbled out of her mouth, unbidden.

He turned away then, his hands up in his hair, radiating rage and sorrow. He slammed his hands down on the top of the piano, so hard that the lid slammed shut.

‘Bullshit’, he said, a terrible crack in his voice.

‘Sergio’, she said, trying to grab his face, desperate, somehow, to get him to look at her, but he only pushed her hands away. ‘Sergio, please. _I’m in love with you_. It’s why I’m here.’

Her words hung in the air between them: an awful, tantalising promise.

When he next spoke, his voice, broken just a moment ago, was a cold, blank monotone. Every word was forced and barren, like he was cramming ice straight into her veins.

‘Leave me alone, please', he said.

‘Sergio’, she pleaded. As he retreated, she was coming undone, unravelling the more she tried to hold herself in. ‘I’m here because I wanted to give you the documents. I thought you should destroy them and take the crown anyway, but –’

She took a steadying breath, fighting against her body as it shook.

‘But I can't’, she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. ‘They've gone. I assume whoever took them will have them verified before tonight.’

Sergio said nothing. He was staring at the lid of the piano.

‘I just wanted you to know’, she said.

He didn't look up.

‘Now I know’, he answered.

He opened the piano again, and Raquel knew it was over. She turned away before he could see her, tears already streaming down her face, a silent _I'm sorry_ on her lips.

* * *

Raquel wasn’t in the mood for being found, and she didn’t return to her quarters straight away. Instead, she lurked in the far corner of the schoolroom, the very last place the triplets would look, and thumbed through some old exercise books.

She wasn’t reading the words, just flicking through the pages and replacing them on the shelves, stopping periodically to wipe mascara tears from her cheeks.

She highly doubted she would be welcome at that evening’s ball, but when she returned to her room to fix her make-up just in case, she found her three charges sat in a row on her bed, dressed to the nines and waiting for her.

Still trying to swallow her grief, she offered up a much-too-jovial comment about their punctuality, and sailed past, hoping to get to the bathroom unimpeded. When they saw her tear-streaked face Ágata looked concerned and got to her feet. Daniel, however, held out an arm to stop her, and Raquel felt a wave of gratitude towards him as she went.

‘Five minutes’, she called, positivity injected into her still-raspy voice.

She’d got the mascara off her cheeks and was reapplying it to her lashes when Ágata poked her head around the door. She was still looking concerned, and had clearly got past her brother.

‘You told him’, she observed.

‘Of course I did.’

Dimly, and keen to move the subject away from her own shredded emotions, she recognised that Ágata really had made a lot of effort tonight, and she told her so. She was in a dress made of deep blue velvet, peppered with twinkling gold stars to match her rings, which adorned every finger. Ágata took the compliment with a pleased grin, and returned to the matter at hand.

‘So what happened?’ she asked. ‘Are you fired?’

Raquel laughed darkly.

‘I think we can assume yes’, she said. She forced a smile. ‘But I don’t want to ruin your Christmas any more than I already have, ok? Don’t worry about me. I’m just here to take you to a ball and blend into the background.’

Ágata left her alone then, but Raquel knew better than to think the subject was dropped.

* * *

As they milled around near the front door of the palace, Raquel was beginning to feel very nervous. She no longer looked like she'd been crying all afternoon, but she had been expecting to be one of the people shouting questions, and she was not relishing the trip through her colleagues, despite the fact that she suspected hardly any of them would recognise her, as she'd not exactly been sociable before.

Still, she took comfort in the fact that the photographers would no doubt be far more interested in the cut of the princesses’ dresses and the freshly shaved side of Daniel’s head than they would be in their 40-something tutor. She regretted her own pretty dress, but next to Silene she would still seem fairly pedestrian, she hoped.

They met up with Aníbal and Mónica, who were sneaked in a side door in their finery, and then it was time.

‘Ready?’ Mónica asked, grinning nervously.

Daniel smiled at her soppily, and pressed a kiss to her lips.

‘You’re going to blow their fucking minds’, he told her, eyes running over her dress. Mónica blushed, and Raquel smiled at the pair fondly.

‘You all will’, she said. ‘Let’s go.’

So they piled into a royal limo for the frankly ridiculous 30-second commute to the hall, and when they got out, it was to a wall of noise. Reporters were vying for the youngsters’ attention, cameras flashed, and the small crowd of well-wishers who’d gathered outside cried out in excitement at the young royals’ appearance.

And then, from nowhere, Raquel heard her own name. Then again.

She blinked.

The world swam around her – a blur of gold and red, bright lights dazzling her. The winter air was cold against her skin, and yet she felt hot, and her chest too tight. She stumbled. The voices felt like they were in slow motion – she felt them resonate in her eardrums, but she couldn’t make out the words.

Then someone’s hand closed around her arm, eliciting another roar from the crowd, and the world spun back into focus.

‘Raquel Murillo!’

‘Raquel, how did you find the adoption papers?’

Her aide steered her assertively forward, their fingers the only stationary point in the whirling kaleidoscope of colour.

‘Raquel, did you sleep with Prince Sergio to get information?’

‘Is it true you’re involved with the prince of Aldovia, Raquel?’

‘How does it feel to be exposed, Raquel?’

‘Raquel Murillo!’

Something hit her in the leg, and she bent to pick it up on instinct. It was a paper, the evening edition of the Aldovian Standard, and on it, there was a huge picture of her and Sergio kissing. The image sent a physical jolt through her, and she dropped it and hurried inside, no longer sure if the triplets were beside her. She hadn’t even taken in the headline. All she knew was that she was fired – here and back in Spain, and from every position she was going to apply for for the rest of her life.

God, she hoped this hadn’t made international news yet. She needed to speak to her mum and Paula before it did.

She realised then that the hand on her arm was still there, or it had been until a second ago, because she noticed when its owner removed it, instead pushing her dropped newspaper back into her hands. Then her saviour was gone, absorbed into the crowd, and Raquel was too stunned to even look up.

So instead, she glanced down at the paper.

The front page was primarily the picture of them kissing, which was horrible enough, but set into the bigger image was a little box containing a photograph of the adoption papers.

She sighed. She had been too late.

Still, dizzy and sad, and tucked safely away from the eyes of the press, she started reading. She was surprised to find that Sergio himself had reportedly contacted the paper to confirm the rumours and to announce, officially, that he would not be taking the throne. And, what followed the salacious headline was a fairly accurate outline of what had happened between them over the past week – so accurate, in fact, that Raquel thought it highly unlikely that anyone except Sergio could have filled in those blanks. 

And when the reporter asked him how he felt about the journalist who’d uncovered the story, he was quoted as saying: ‘My family aims to be open and honest with the people of Aldovia, and therefore we are nothing but grateful to Ms Murillo. I only regret the truth was not told sooner.’

The statement itself could have been pasted from a PR handbook, but behind the sterile language it was so incredibly kind that Raquel had to choke back a sob. If their places were switched, she doubted she could have been so benevolent. 

The reporter then asked Sergio how he felt about it personally, and Raquel held her breath. The report said he was silent for a long time and then declined to comment, noting that he sounded ‘melancholy’.

It went on to speculate about a relationship, and Raquel crumpled the page up in her fist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow, the ball continues. But what's going to happen? Please post theories, feelings and general wailing below, if you like ⬇️⬇️⬇️


	24. The Christmas Eve Ball: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Aldovian Christmas Eve Ball isn't over, and Raquel and Sergio still have much more to discover about one another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas Eve, friends! We've finally caught up to Aldovian time. In case you're wondering about the publishing schedule for the final chapter, I will be editing it tonight before I go to bed, and then posting it first thing in the morning when I wake up (I'm on GMT). 
> 
> I wish you all a wonderful Christmas Eve, and I hope this second-to-last chapter of mine will help add to the anticipatory, festive spirit of today.

_Christmas Eve, 4.00pm_

As Rosa – or rather, Raquel – revealed herself to him, Sergio thought his heart would break. When she told him she loved him, it shattered completely.

Even Martín had never betrayed him so completely.

And as she pleaded forgiveness, he couldn’t take it any longer, couldn’t bear another second lost in the unfamiliar eyes he’d thought he’d known.

So he stared at the wood of the piano instead. He dodged her desperate hands, ignored the cracks in her voice as her composure failed, and he shut down. He was monosyllabic, deliberately numb, because the only other option was falling apart in her arms, and in that moment, he couldn’t bear her continued presence.

But as she walked away, he looked up anyway. She was leaving, just as he’d asked, but even with her face turned away he could see her finally succumbing to her tears, and something in his chest twisted painfully. She disappeared, and he suddenly had to resist the urge to call after her, to beg her to come back in spite of it all.

He leant his forehead against the cold instrument in front of him, teeth clenched, eyes bright - and drew in breath after breath after breath, trying to quell his racing heart.

And then his brain – shellshocked and grief stricken – started to whir back into action, and without his consent or conscious effort, he knew what he had to do.

* * *

He found Ágata reading a book about Pussy Riot on her bed. She was dressed for the ball, but was still barefaced, with her hair splayed wildly across her pillow, and fluffy socks over the top of her tights.

When he appeared in her doorway, she flung the book aside, and on his request, they gathered Silene and Daniel too. The teenagers relayed between them everything they knew about Raquel – from the first time they figured it out, to this morning, when they’d turned the palace upside down looking for the folder on her suggestion.

They were thorough, he thought – taking him all the way from their initial wariness, to their instinctive trust, to today’s anger. The emotional journey felt familiar.

He was angry, of course, that they’d kept it from him, but for now that could wait. Instead, he relayed his newly formed plan to them, and left them soon after with strict instructions.

He had a pretty good guess as to who might have stolen the papers, but it hardly mattered: what mattered was the intention, and he thought he could guess that too.

The easiest way to prevent him from taking the crown tonight would be to send those precious documents to a local paper. And the Standard had by far the highest circulation – a morning and evening edition, every day. If it was him, he'd go there first.

So he called them.

An exclusive interview, that very afternoon, if they waited for him before they went to print.

He had no illusions that he’d be able to stop them running the confirmation of the adoption news, but with Raquel’s heads-up, he might now be able to soften the impact on the family. After all, no one who was alive had known – the criticism should be aimed at the people who had actively chosen to deceive the nation.

But he only had an hour – maybe a few minutes more, if he put his foot down.

A few empty threats down the phone about press regulation, and the poor reporter admitted it all. It would be front page news, of course.

But something about what the woman was saying sounded odd, not quite what he was expecting, and Sergio pressed her further until she spoke plainly... and when she explained the main thrust of the story and the _photo_ , his heart dropped to the pit of his stomach.

He yelled something down the phone about the interview, and without waiting for her response, he hung up.

Then he _ran_.

He didn’t stop to think what he might look like, tearing down the hallways, bedecked in the red and gold traditional finery of the Aldovian royalty, medals thumping against his chest. All he could think of was getting to that paper, of doing _something._ What, he didn’t yet know.

As Sergio sped towards the Aldovian Standard headquarters, and as Raquel mooched around the schoolroom, her head full of what-ifs; Ágata, Silene and Daniel were breaking into her laptop. Or rather, Silene was breaking into her laptop with the help of Aníbal on the phone, who was in turn downloading her files remotely.

And in ten minutes, he had everything.

In another 30 seconds, all the drafts of Raquel’s unpublished features pinged into Sergio’s email inbox.

And a mile into his frantic journey, he seized that little screen in his gloved hand and slowed to a walk, catching his breath.

Dread coloured his vision, and his heart was now in his throat. This was the moment, he knew it, that Raquel would seal her own fate with more sensationalism and scandal. He slowed to a complete standstill, unwilling to stumble as she squeezed the very last drop of hope from his ailing heart.

What he found in his inbox, however, made his scepticism die on the first line.

It felt as though she’d looked into his soul.

The writing was straightforward and unsentimental, but Sergio had never felt more seen. The pieces sparkled with lively quotes from an anonymous source he immediately recognised as Ágata, and he found snatches of conversations he’d had with her in there too, paraphrased, perfectly capturing the essence of what he’d meant.

It wasn’t all _kind_ , and Sergio loved it all the more for that. She’d researched the impact that some of his past robberies had had, and she’d even touched on the incident with Martín, and the eight people still incarcerated in Estonia. He could also feel a prickly scepticism as she explored his anti-royalist sentiment and his continued presence as a senior royal. But she’d seen his good intentions behind his inconsistency, and she’d painted a picture of his family so wonderfully he didn’t think he could have done a better job himself.

And as he stowed his phone back in his pocket and picked up the pace again, as he remembered that the only reason he wasn’t going to be floored tonight was because Raquel had warned him, he began to wonder if what she’d said less than an hour ago might be true.

* * *

When he arrived at the paper’s offices, he was swept inside in a flurry of pomp and excitement, and he told them everything they wanted to know.

His frantic rush to defend the living members of his family and somehow retain his own integrity had morphed, however. Now, alongside his assurances that he would, of course, not be taking the crown, he found himself defending _her_. As their questions painted her as manipulative he rebuffed them with her patience, her kindness.

And the thought of her face didn’t hurt like it had before.

* * *

He might have looked ridiculous when he was sprinting through the town, but Sergio was glad he was already dressed, because by the time the interview was finished – gone 5 and already pitch black out – he barely had time to get back for the beginning of the ball.

He left amongst a flurry of activity – because just as he needed to be back at the palace ASAP, so too did the Standard need to reprint their front page and lead story, and get their papers on the stands for 6pm.

Sergio called his team at the palace as soon as he was clear of the newspaper office.

He told a horrified Prieto what he’d just done, ordered them to find Andrés as soon as possible and notify the prime minster of the change of plans, and then he directed his driver to his current location.

By the time he was collected, and by the time he’d fielded all the frantic calls pouring from the political elite and his own courtiers, he was running _very_ late. 

Late enough, in fact, to see Raquel and the triplets entering the ball as he snuck out of the car. Late enough to see reporters brandishing the freshly printed Standard as she went past, yelling her name.

He didn’t know quite what possessed him in that moment, but he could see her spiralling, unused as she was to being on the receiving end of press attention. He hurried up the steps without even stopping to smile for the big broadcasters, and caught her by the arm, steering her steadily through it all.

He didn’t think she recognised him, but he stayed nonetheless, ignoring the screamed questions about their relationship, concentrating solely on her. And, when she looked stable, he left her with a newspaper, and disappeared into the crowd.

He hoped she’d understand when she read it.

* * *

The article was too much, and Raquel was trying to find the triplets.

She didn’t know if it mattered – after all, even though Sergio had managed to clear up her mess, she didn’t think she was likely to be anything other than fired after tonight. And even if she wasn’t, it didn’t matter anyway – she had to go back to Spain once the coronation was over. She truly cared for the triplets, but she wouldn’t uproot her own family for them.

Still, she searched for them anyway, because notwithstanding duty, they were the only friendly faces she was likely to see that evening. Everyone else seemed to be peering at her suspiciously from behind their champagne, and it made her nervous.

She found them, eventually, on the dancefloor.

The two couples were happily waltzing, and Ágata had found a friend and dance partner in her cousin Mirko. They were messing around – dancing dramatically to the slow songs, and all but _moshing_ to anything with a bit of a rhythm. Raquel laughed from her position on the side of the floor. God, she was going to miss them.

She really didn’t think she’d feel that way when she left Paula on that cold December morning.

Ágata had noticed her lingering by then, and with an impervious beckon, she summoned Raquel a dance partner in the form of Radko. Raquel accepted, happy to melt into the crowd with him as they messed around to the music.

And when that music slowed again, this time to a soaring lament, she and Radko transitioned to a basic slow dance, and talked amicably.

‘Are you heading back for Christmas?’ he asked her, after a while. ‘Nairobi said you had a kid.’

‘I do’, Raquel said. ‘And I think so. I thought I’d miss it this year, but I suppose that’s the silver lining of my royal fuck up.’

She snorted at her own choice of words.

‘No pun intended.’

Radko chuckled.

‘Well’, he said kindly. ‘My father always used to tell me that failure planted the seed for future successes. Maybe it will for you.’

She looked up at him, smiling at his good intentions, when something in her brain clicked into place.

‘What did you say?’ she asked.

‘Maybe you’ll be successful in the future?’ Radko said, looking confused.

‘No, no’, Raquel said, dropping her arms from his shoulders. ‘The other bit.’

‘Failure plants the seed?’

Raquel grinned. For the first time in a few days, she felt cool, glorious relief rush over her.

‘It’s been a pleasure, Radko’, she said, kissing his cheek. ‘ _Thank you_.’

And with that, she dashed away: away from the dancefloor, away from her friends, through the waiters and revellers and photographers, and out into the snow.

* * *

It was so obvious, she chastised herself, scrambling back up the palace steps. Painfully, blindingly obvious. She should have seen it. _He_ should have seen it.

She ignored Prieto’s shouts as she half-ran past him, towards the sitting room where they’d gathered once before, where Andrés and Sergio had hung Christmas decorations, where he’d shown her a beautiful, handmade acorn.

_But from a seed, an acorn’s gift, henceforth the truth will flood_

It was barely a riddle. He might as well have left fucking _coordinates_. And still, she hadn’t seen it.

She burst into the room.

She’d lost Prieto, but she was out of breath, and her shoes were starting to hurt.

Opposite the door, that Christmas tree gleamed, and Raquel set upon it, scouring its branches for the decoration she sought.

She found it near the bottom and snatched it up in her hands, but she was quickly unsure of how to proceed. What should she do? Smash it? It seemed like the quickest solution, but after all she’d done, she didn’t want to start destroying gifts from the family’s deceased patriarch too.

Instead, she wrenched at the top, and to her surprise, it popped open easily in her hands.

And, sure enough, another mysterious document lay inside.

One glance at the title and she was off again, back the way she came, hoping against hope that she’d bump into Prieto and not have to sprint back into the ball, back through the reporters and to _him._

But luck was finally on her side, because the disgruntled chief of staff was to be found not two minutes from the room she’d discovered the ornament in, and she skidded to a halt beside him, her heels screeching a little on the hard wood flooring.

Prieto looked at her like she was a dog who’d just made a mess on the floor, and given the circumstances, she didn’t blame him.

So instead of speaking, she wordlessly pushed the acorn and its document into Prieto’s hands.

‘Give them to Sergio’, she told him. ‘ _Now_.’

But she didn’t stick around long enough to watch Prieto’s reaction to being given an order by a disgraced former member of staff. She was off down the corridor again, now headed for her own room.

The house of Marquina had had quite enough of her, she thought.

It was time to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more sleep to go! I would love to hear your thoughts as always, and I look forward to sharing the very last chapter with you soon...


	25. Tradition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas day dawns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Welcome to the final chapter. Wherever you are, however, or whatever you celebrate, I hope you have an amazing festive season. I've certainly had fun this year, and this fic and your support is definitely part of that.
> 
> If you've commented on the previous chapter (or if you do comment on this one) I may not reply today, but rest assured that I will as soon as I can, because I absolutely love talking to people about this story.
> 
> So for the very last time: let's go!

_Christmas Day_

Raquel sneaked through her own front door at 3am on Christmas morning.

The house was completely still, and she tiptoed inside, wincing as she shut the door, turning the key painstakingly slowly.

As she moved, she listened. She didn’t think her reappearance had disturbed Paula or Mariví, and so she crept in further, dragging her cases behind her, thankful for the muffling of the carpet.

She abandoned her bags by the side of the couch and stretched out on it, admiring the Christmas lights strung across the mantlepiece. This room might not have chandeliers or antique vases or priceless artwork, but it was her own little oasis. The tree twinkled with her own family's assortment of mismatched ornaments, some made by Paula when she was little. She noticed that her mother had wrapped up the gifts she’d stashed in the cupboard for Paula, because they now sat beneath the tree, adorned with ribbon and reindeer-themed paper.

As she gazed at the gifts, the memory of last Christmas replayed in front of her tired eyes. Paula’s eyes were shining and she was yelling delightedly about something. Mariví was in the kitchen, and the most delicious smells permeated every corner of the house. Raquel sipped on a glass of wine as she chatted to her daughter.

She felt her eyelids beginning to tug downwards, but she was much too comfortable to move now. Instead, she reached for the blanket hung over the back of the couch.

She’d decided not to call ahead, in the end. The photos of her would have reached the Spanish press before she got a chance to speak to them, and as she was heading back early, she wanted to surprise them. She hoped that Paula finding her here on Christmas morning would be the good kind of surprise. Exhausted, Raquel gave into sleep.

* * *

As Raquel had slumped herself across three uncomfortable plastic airport chairs, waiting for her midnight flight with her handbag for a pillow, newly crowned King Sergio was still entertaining well-wishers and guests, but his mind was elsewhere.

Prieto had got the acorn to him a mere thirty minutes before the coronation – then planned to be Andrés’s – and Sergio had unfolded the paper within it with wonder. In his hands, a ruling signed by his father, days before his death, mandating that adopted children would henceforth be included in the line of succession.

‘Is this genuine?’ Sergio had asked Prieto, eyes wide.

‘It is, your majesty.’

‘How did you know?’ he’d asked then, running his hands over the surface of the acorn, his father’s last gift.

Prieto had cleared his throat, and looked a little uncomfortable.

‘Not me’, he’d answered. ‘Your journalist… friend.’

Sergio had questioned further, hungry for more details, but there had been no time to pursue her, not then. He needed to speak to the prime minister and Andrés too. An announcement needed to be organised – it was, after all, highly irregular for the heir apparent to change twice in two days.

But conversations were had, the press notified, and at exactly 9pm on Christmas Eve, Prince Sergio Marquina had been crowned King Sergio III of Aldovia, pledging his life to the service of his country. Despite all his misgivings, it had felt like the right thing, in the end.

The one problem, however, was that kings – particularly brand new ones – had rather a lot of hand-shaking and schmoozing to do, not to mention speeches and interviews and ceremony. He’d not seen Raquel since he’d helped her inside, and every second longer she was absent, the more his concern grew. Was she avoiding him? Was she alone in the palace? Worse, had she decided to go home to Spain?

He needed to find her, to tell her that she was forgiven and that he believed her, because how could he not? That he loved her.

But instead, he was introduced to an endless stream of noblemen and politicians, paraded up and down in front of the cameras, and forced to endure the glares of Andrés and Martín from across the hall. He was thankful, at least, that he hadn’t had time to talk to them since the change of plans, he supposed.

The triplets were still there, which might have been a good sign, except that all of them were very drunk, which he thought Raquel would probably have discouraged.

By the time he got back to the palace at 1am, she was nowhere to be found.

Frantic, he’d burst into her bedroom, to find the drawers empty and the bed made. The realisation winded him and, eyes stinging, he’d sunk down onto her duvet, clinging to the last part of her he had left.

* * *

Raquel was awoken on Christmas morning by Paula’s squeals of delight. She was momentarily confused – still readjusting to being back at home – but within seconds she’d sat up and opened her arms wide. She laughed loudly as Paula leapt into the embrace and immediately showered her with questions about her trip.

_Why are you here? How did it go? Did you prove the prince was bad? Was he mean? Who else did you meet? Can we open presents now?_

Raquel took a breath, drinking in the familiar scent of _home_ , and did her best to sate Paula’s curiosity. She showed her photos of the town and the palace and the countryside, and the girl drank them all in with wide eyes. She told her about Ágata and Silene and Daniel, trying to make their antics a bit more PG. She told her a bit about what she found out about Sergio, about how he didn’t like royalty either, and how he was trying to help people, even if sometimes it went a bit wrong.

And then, of course, the question she hoped she wouldn’t have to field.

‘Why does it say you were kissing him on the news, mamá?’

Raquel laughed, and pulled Paula onto her lap.

‘Well’, she said. ‘When I found out that he wasn’t as bad as we thought, I liked him. And he liked me too.’

Paula wrinkled her nose.

‘Are you going to marry him?’ she asked brightly, as offhand as if she’d just asked for a biscuit.

‘ _No_ ’, Raquel told her firmly. ‘I don’t know him well enough for that. Anyway, I hurt his feelings, and he doesn’t like me anymore.’

She smiled sadly, and Paula watched her, obviously curious.

‘Shall we wake grandma up?’ Raquel suggested, changing the subject. ‘Then you can open your presents.’

Paula nodded enthusiastically, immediately losing all interest in her mother’s relationship with the now-king of Aldovia.

* * *

Sergio was woken on Christmas morning by Prieto shaking his shoulder.

His first thought was how horribly his joints hurt.

His second was that the surface he was sleeping on was extremely hard and not at all like his usual mattress.

Blearily, he opened his eyes, and pushed himself into a sitting position. He realised that he was on the floor and in an unfamiliar room, although definitely still within the palace. What had happened last night? He felt dreadful.

Gingerly, he tried to get to his feet. Knees protesting fiercely, he managed it, albeit with all the grace of an arthritic octogenarian.

He was still in his ceremonial garb from the day before, and he realised with a horrible jolt that this was Raquel’s room – Raquel’s vacated room. He must have fallen asleep as he clutched at her bed covers, and had pulled the entire duvet off the bed as he slept.

Feeling embarrassed, Sergio thanked Prieto for waking him before anyone else found him, and assured him he was fine to return to his own quarters alone. He was thankful to see the back of him: this wasn’t how a new monarch was supposed to behave; of that he was sure.

At least his new position meant he didn’t have much chance to ruminate about Raquel that morning. As well as an awkward family gathering punctuated by Andrés and Martín’s bickering – which he wriggled out of as soon as possible with an excuse about his duties – he had to record the annual Christmas speech to the nation, his first. He also needed to make an appearance at St Joseph’s, to present the orphanage with the sum raised by the benefit, including a _mysteriously_ large donation from an anonymous well-wisher.

He felt different about it now, now that he knew he’d lived here once, even only as a baby.

And when all that was done, his team indicated that he had to return home for Christmas lunch, and as he followed them to the car, Sergio made a decision.

* * *

After lunch, Raquel and Mariví got stuck into the washing up, while Paula was occupied with her presents in the other room. She was currently engrossed in a book about a princess who made friends with a dragon. Paula wasn’t usually big on princesses, but this year the theme had caught her imagination.

When Mariví grilled her about the prince over the sink, Raquel wasn’t as reticent as she’d been with Paula, relaying the whole tale as best she could, trying to ignore the ache in her chest as she relived every excruciating mistake.

When she was done, her mother said nothing for a while. Raquel scrubbed at a burnt-on bit on a baking tray, dreading the verdict.

‘Why didn’t you stay?’ Mariví asked eventually, her expression curious.

Raquel frowned.

‘Stay?’

‘Are you still in love with him?’ she prompted.

‘Mamá…’

Mariví stopped drying, evidently waiting for an answer.

‘I published his personal life on the front page of El País’, Raquel said, throwing the sponge into the sink. ‘And I _lied_ to him, over and over.’

‘Darling’, Mariví said, gently rubbing her arms, the gesture making Raquel feel a little teary all of a sudden. ‘We all make stupid mistakes when we’re in love.’

‘I don’t think –’

‘But you shouldn’t give up on him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s forgiven you already.’

Raquel gave her mother an incredulous stare and, feeling both irritated and emotional now, returned to the dishes with renewed vigour.

‘He helped you face the press, didn’t he?’ Mariví went on.

Raquel grimaced. She’d now seen the images of Sergio gently guiding her away from the photographers, and it just made her feel worse. He shouldn’t have had to do that.

‘Mamá, stop.’

‘And I don’t know if you watched his Christmas speech today, but I don’t think _depressed_ is the word for it.’

‘Mamá, why would I watch that?’

Mariví only dropped the subject when Paula came to join them, and all in all Raquel was relieved when they left to set up shop at her mother’s little bar for the evening: because then there were customers to chat to, and drinks to mix, and talk of King Sergio was an impossibility. A few of their regulars were giving her funny looks, but no one broached the subject, for which she was grateful.

These evenings at the bar were a Christmas tradition of theirs – Mariví didn’t want to open all day as she wanted to spend Christmas with the family, but their regulars were almost like family anyway. So, after lunch, every Christmas since she’d opened, they’d all trudge up the road, and they’d serve wine and tapas until midnight, catching up with the customers and laughing.

Mariví never had any of her staff in on Christmas Day, so it was just the three of them. Paula would carry small orders to the tables and bring people extra napkins and cutlery, Mariví would cook, and Raquel would serve the drinks. Paula was especially fond of this tradition, as she was never allowed to stay up this late on any other night of the year. Even when Alberto had her, she would beg to be dropped off here at the end of the night.

At five minutes to midnight, Mariví, usually having imbibed a fair amount of her wares herself, would pass round a free glass of port to everyone who was gathered, and as Christmas crept away from them, they would toast to the day, to next year – to anything they could think of.

This year was no different, and as the minute hand crept towards twelve, Raquel lined up thirty tiny port glasses on the bar. Paula, delirious now with tiredness, eagerly ran to collect the drinks, carrying them carefully to their grateful recipients. Raquel watched her go, and gathered up a larger batch on a tray to help her distribute them more quickly.

Fairy lights twinkled, the candles on the tables burned low, and all around her was laughter. One table had even started singing – a drunken version of a Christmas carol, the words all wrong, replaced with profanities. Raquel had drunk quite a bit of wine herself, and the bar spun around her in a warm, festive glow as she moved from table to table, handing out glasses.

And yet, as the toasts began, as she closed her fingers around her own glass, she couldn’t bring the scene back into focus like she normally did.

She was wondering what _he_ was doing, high up in his palace.

She doubted it was particularly regal to get drunk and toast the duck that lived in your garden, but god, she wished he was here to scream with laughter as they were doing, to yell out more suggestions of birds who should be toasted.

Which led, of course, to speculation on which birds should be _toasted_ , which led to more roaring laughter.

Raquel was supposed to be refilling the port – one free glass was never enough, and usually turned bottomless – but she found herself drifting through the bar towards the front door, in need of air. Her head was spinning and her heart wasn’t in it. For the first Christmas of her life, she just wanted to close up and go to bed, and she didn’t want her melancholy mood infecting the whole occasion.

So she stepped out into the cold in her thin shirt, the empty drinks tray still clutched in one hand, breathing in the icy air. The world started coming back into focus as she took in gulp after gulp of the cold air.

The night was still, and frost was gathering on the pavement and on the roofs of the houses with their glowing orange windows. Fairy lights glittered in sweeping ropes all the way down the street. It felt like snow.

And he was there too.

The alcohol in her system gave the evening such a dreamlike quality that Raquel wasn’t surprised, somehow, to see him standing there. He was in a long dark coat, and he wore a small, hopeful smile as he approached her, as she moved to meet him halfway.

‘Raquel’, he breathed, and all she could do was stare.

It was the first time she’d heard her real name on his lips.

His hands were on her bare arms, and he was just looking at her, staring, like she was the most precious thing in the world.

After a while, she found her voice.

‘Sergio’, she said. ‘What are you doing?’

A warmth was spreading through her as he gazed at her. It started where his gloved hands held her upper arms, snaking into her chest and permeating every part of her.

‘I believe you’, he said then, stepping closer, resting his forehead against hers. ‘I believe everything you told me and – if you’ll still have me –’

Raquel starting laughing, gently then uncontrollably, unable to contain the bubble of joy that had blossomed in her chest as soon as she’d recognised him. And then tears came to chase away the laughter, running down her cheeks; and he wiped them away for her with shaking fingers.

‘If you’ll still have me, there’s no one else I’d want to burn it all down with.’

She was crying in earnest now and, speechless, she closed the gap between them to kiss him. She kissed him softly, sweetly, _I’m sorry_ in every movement of her lips.

In return, he enveloped her in his arms, pulling her inside his coat for warmth. For a few, precious moments, nothing existed beyond their two bodies, cocooned together in the silent city street; indistinguishable and inseparable.

When they broke apart, a few of Mariví’s patrons were starting to spill out onto the street, although the majority were still inside, laughing uproariously.

‘Would you like to come inside?’ Raquel asked, beaming up at him. ‘It might not be quite as lavish as what you do at the palace, but this is one of our little traditions.’

Sergio beamed back, his eyes just as watery and pink as hers.

‘I would love that, Raquel’, he said softly, stroking her cheek. ‘I would love it.’

And so they headed inside, and for the first time that evening Raquel felt real again. She got Sergio his own glass and, arms around each other, they laughed along with the rest.

The night wore on, and one by one the customers left, but Sergio stayed. He washed dishes with Paula and avoided Mariví’s questions about their sex life, flushing, while Raquel swatted at her with a towel.

And when they finally locked up at nearly 2am, he scooped Paula into his arms and carried her back to the house, only putting her down to settle her in her bed.

Mariví went to bed soon after her granddaughter, but Raquel and Sergio stayed up, just sitting and talking and touching, both afraid to close their eyes, in case they woke up with nothing but a fading memory.

But they finally fell asleep in each other’s arms – the warmth and darkness and wine too much for either to resist.

And when morning came, they were still there: real and tangible, tangled together on the couch.


End file.
